Bruises
by Dr. Breifs Cat
Summary: "You see what a strange circumstance it is," she said, feeling some fleeting relief. "You know our acquaintance has not been easy." Elizabeth wakes up to find she and Darcy have been married ten years.
1. Chapter 1

**Bruises  
**Chapter One

* * *

Someone was shaking her. She woke up, understood nothing of what was happening around her and was allowed to go back to sleep.

The culprit struck again later. She no longer remembered the first instance. He was a stranger, his accomplice equally unrecognizable. Though she was alone with two unknown men, she never thought to fear them. She wished only to be allowed to sleep, and soon enough, they left her to her own will.

He awoke her again.

And again.

And again.

Exhausted and achy, Elizabeth looked up at the tense man who saw it fit to torment her all night and exclaimed with no small amount of surprise, "Mr. Darcy!" He smiled, broad and bright. Wrinkles and smile lines blossomed across his face. The corners of his eyes and mouth suffered the most, where innumerable creases punctuated his skin.

He said - to someone else, not to Elizabeth, because he was too rude a man to respond to someone calling him by name - "She recognized me!"

The other person, a gentleman Elizabeth could not recall meeting previously, said, "Excellent, sir, excellent." The other man approached her bedside, causing Elizabeth to note that she was still abed. Her mind fogged with pain, she struggled to sit up. Her limbs were heavy and unresponsive. Mr. Darcy moved to assist her. She balked at his hands slipping behind her and bracing her back.

Instantly, she regretted sitting up. Her courage demanded that she not face such a disturbing circumstance lying down, but now that she had sat up in her night things, her modesty protested. To have Mr. Darcy and a stranger see her in such a state of undress was mortifying.

"Sir," Elizabeth protested, "I must..." but her words died then. She could hardly formulate an end to her idea. She must protest the presence of the two men. She must protest Mr. Darcy's touch. She must protest lying about in bed like an invalid when she was a perfectly healthy young woman.

The stranger leaned very close to Elizabeth and declared, "Mrs. Darcy's pupils are the same size."

"Is there any danger?" Mr. Darcy asked.

"At this juncture," the stranger replied, "It is difficult to say. I can recommend rest." He wandered away from Elizabeth's side, seemingly more interested in cryptic remarks and riddles. "Mrs. Darcy should stay in bed. Do not expect her to do any activities that require concentration. Reading, sewing, household accounts are all absolutely out of the question."

"Good news at last," Mr. Darcy said, voice strained. "I know how you have wished to give up needlework."

The stranger was evidently the sort to who did not appreciate it when Mr. Darcy cast off his serious mien in a poor attempt at teasing. Somberly, he insisted, "She will likely remain disoriented for some days. Expect some memory loss. Mrs. Darcy will likely never remember what happened immediately after the accident."

"The Lord has had mercy upon her," Mr. Darcy answered, accepting the stranger's demand to abandon all attempts at mirth. "If He would rather have her memory than her life, I can only thank and praise Him."

"There may be pain," the stranger added, "A household of this size...I trust you are well stocked in laudanum."

Sternly, Mr. Darcy said, "I will not have a child born addicted to opiates."

"As you will, sir," the stranger replied. "I trust you have sent word for the midwife to examine Mrs. Darcy?"

"I have."

"Prepare yourself. It is by no means certain her news will be as happy as mine."

With a cool, dismissive tone, Mr. Darcy said, "Thank you."

This signaled clearly to the stranger that his presence was no longer desirable and, after making some vague promises to return whenever he was needed, he quit the room.

Lying abed quite alone with Mr. Darcy, without even a maid to ensure his good behavior, Elizabeth silently willed him to leave. Not heeding the edicts of her inner most thoughts, Mr. Darcy pulled a chair up very close to her bedside and inquired, "Is there much pain?"

"I do not understand," Elizabeth answered. The question he had asked was simple enough. She could comprehend his words. But that he was here, that he was being solicitous of her comfort, that she was lying in bed with only this man for company. All this, Elizabeth could not understand.

"You are still very disoriented," Mr. Darcy said. She did not need anyone else pointing out her confusion. Elizabeth understood that well enough.

"If you are here only to point out the obvious," Elizabeth said, "and explain nothing that wants for explanation, I would rather you go."

He frowned. Then, "Is there pain in your head?"

"Yes."

The always imperious Darcy, determined to have his own way, ordered her, "Tell me what you remember."

Elizabeth should not take pleasure in catering to his requests even if she was capable of doing so. In this instance, she was too lacking in information to even make a play at doing as he had asked. "In reference to what?"

Equally determined to be as difficult as may be, Mr. Darcy chose to not share anything helpful and instead said, "The accident."

"I can recall no accident," Elizabeth answered.

"A sconce fell off the wall and struck you upon the head," he said, finally feeling it necessary to give even the barest of details.

In Elizabeth's experiences with sconces, they were generally secured to the wall in such a way that striking a person on the head seemed unlikely at best. However, she did have a great pain in her head. Though it did not make the stranger's words make any more sense, the idea that he was an apothecary appeared reasonable to Elizabeth. Having no other recourse, and believing Mr. Darcy to be an honest man, if an ill-tempered and vengeful one, Elizabeth decided to believe him. "When did this occur?"

"Nearly twelve hours ago," Mr. Darcy replied. "This is the first you've been sensible since."

Being of a disposition to make light of what distressed her, Elizabeth said, "Papa will be disappointed."

"Your father will be relieved," Darcy argued. "I was of a mind to write an express to Longbourn the moment you were carried into the family wing, but was persuaded to wait until we had more news. Had I written your father directly, the happy news of your progress could not have reached him. He and the rider would have passed each other on the road."

Elizabeth was somewhat impressed with this speech of Mr. Darcy's, as it was the longest stretch of time she had ever heard him speak without being insulting. It was, however, rather rambling and nonsensical. She did not wonder at his usual terse silence if this nonsense was what he normally produced when inspired to go on. Never in her life had she been so much has half a day's journey from Longbourn and the idea of her father's missing an express because he was on the road himself was ludicrous. "Papa hates to travel."

Mr. Darcy raised his eyebrows. "I have never found that to be the case."

Elizabeth could hardly credit his having an opinion about her father's tendency or not to travel. "You do not know him," she pointed out.

Unwilling to accept the idea that he was not the most informed person in all respects, Mr. Darcy said, "The proper inducement is all he requires. A favorite daughter is reason enough for any man to travel half the kingdom."

He was a very tiresome man to converse with, and the short discourse they had had left Elizabeth drained of all of the energy she had upon waking up. The fact that she was still in bed, while initially revolting to her modesty, now struck her as perfectly proper and convenient. "I am very tired," she confessed. "I shall sleep now."

"Of course, my dear." He leaned over and kissed her upon her brow. "I shall return when you are feeling better."

Elizabeth, whose head was aching fiercely, exercised none of her limited energy on the contemplation of this unfathomable man. She could scarcely stand thinking about him when she felt well. She certainly would not labor over him while feeling ill.

* * *

When Elizabeth next awoke, a maid was seated by her bedside. Though her father kept several maids to work inside the house, there had never been so many as to preclude any of the family from learning their names. Elizabeth engendered to reproduce this bit of civility everywhere she stayed and always made a point to learn the Christian names of any of the servants she could be expected to see inside the house. Elizabeth had no idea who the girl diligently darning stockings was, which lead her to a second conclusion that she had no idea where she was.

It was an open room, with a merry fire crackling and the few pieces of furniture she could see where light and delicate. Had she found herself alone in a drafty place, like the heroine of a Gothic novel, Elizabeth supposed she would have been quite frightened. In a nicely fitted up room and with a hard working maid for company, she could not be expected to be afraid. Still, she certainly wanted for information about her present circumstance and to that, she applied to the maid.

"Miss," she addressed the unknown girl, "if you could be so kind, I am very curious as to where I am."

"I shall send word for Mr. Darcy straight away, ma'am," the maid replied, abandoning her needle and thread.

"There is no need for that," Elizabeth insisted. "I would much rather you give me what information you can."

But the maid had scurried away to ring the bell. "Oh, no, ma'am," she replied. "Mr. Darcy was very clear. He said as soon as you woke up, I should send for him."

Where ever they were, Elizabeth reflected, Mr. Darcy's directives held more sway over the staff than her own. Rosings seemed like the best theory. Though the pain in her head was still great, she could think more clearly now than she had been able earlier. If an accident occurred while visiting Charlotte and Mr. Collins, perhaps the great condescension of Lady Catherine de Bourgh was such that she insisted the invalid convalesce at the great house. Lady Catherine's servants could hardly be expected to listen to Miss Bennet over their mistress's exalted nephew.

A second maid answered the bell and quickly disappeared in search of the man. It would create talk below stairs, to have Mr. Darcy come and see her in such a state and to have the maids know if it. Perhaps that was his goal in insisting he be notified when she was awake. The first maid began rushing around the room, adjusting screens and pillows in minor, cosmetic ways, which only served to solidify Elizabeth's belief that he had intentions the servants would be gossiping about.

He appeared.

The maid curtsied.

He said, "I will be brief. The midwife is come. See that she had been offered refreshments before examining Mrs. Darcy."

"Yes, sir," the maid answered.

When they were left alone, Mr. Darcy crossed to Elizabeth's side and cupped her cheek in his hand. He kissed her upon her cheek, her brow and her mouth in quick succession. Still holding himself so close that she could feel his breath upon her, he whispered, "Elizabeth. Tell me you are well."

All of her previous assurances that she was in no danger had left her and Elizabeth was beginning to feel some panic. Recollections were returning to her. She was injured. This man did not dislike her, as she had always believed, but thought himself in love with her. This vicious man who had injured her sister's heart, who scorned the companion of his youth, who proposed to her with vile, abusive language had her alone and defenseless. The maids knew she was in bed in her nightdress and they had let him come to her. He had touched her and kissed her.

Elizabeth's first instinct was to scream, but as she drew breath to do so, she realized the folly that would be. It would alert the entire house to thing which she needed to keep as secret as possible. Her only recourse was to appeal to his compassion, to beg for his silence, but what compassion did such a man have? What use for silence did he have, when spreading the news could only help his cause?

"Please, sir," she whispered.

Mr. Darcy stroked her hair and kissed her again, this time on her temple. "You are still in pain," he said.

The conjecture was both true, and she hoped, enough to make him leave her before it was too late. "I am."

"Is it your head alone," he wondered, "or?" The second option, he could not bring himself to name, but Darcy ran his palm over her stomach. The pain in her head and her own confusion and fear had dominated Elizabeth's thoughts. She had given not a thought to the rest of her person, but her stomach was round and distended underneath his hand. Many a mention of Mrs. Darcy and a midwife had been made since she found herself in this bed.

She clutched at her belly herself, her limbs finally answering her commands for movement. There was a ring on her left hand. Of course there was. She was his wife; he was frantic with worry for his baby.

"We are married." Never could she have believed herself uttering such a phrase to this man, but evidently, it was so.

He said simply, "Yes."

It may be an easy thing for this infuriating man to talk about, but for herself, Elizabeth was shocked. What she really wanted to know was how such a thing came to pass, but she would apply to another source for that information. She had little interest in Mr. Darcy's account of how he once again overpowered the objections of anyone else to get his own way. She resolved to write Jane as soon as she felt equal to holding a pen. As for Mr. Darcy, she decided to limit her inquires to him to facts. "When did this occur?"

He made an odd, strangled sort of noise. "Elizabeth, please," he said. "I am in no frame of mind to allow for teasing just now."

"Mr. Darcy," she said, voice strained, "I can assure you, my frame of mind is not at all one to admit to jokes at the current time." Her stomach rolled violently and she was unable to tell if it was sickness or her baby making himself known or perhaps even her injury traveling to inflict itself upon her womb. She had shed tears over him before and was desperate not to do so now, with Mr. Darcy before her.

He took her head in both of his hands and said, "Elizabeth, no."

The tears did come, then. Whether it was due to her own horror alone, the devastation clear in his every word or a combination of the two, Elizabeth could no longer keep herself from weeping. He drew her against himself, held her until she could no longer cry.

"November," he said thickly, when her tears had subsided enough that he could be heard over them, "1813."

He was seated upon the edge of the mattress, having moved himself somewhere in the course of their conversation and holding her. Elizabeth drew away from him. To have increased as much as she had, she had been with child for some months. She had no frame of reference for 1813 versus the current date, but feared that his inclusion of the year of their wedding meant some time had passed since then. "And how many years have we been wed?"

Mr. Darcy replied, "Ten years, madam."

She inhaled, sharply. Elizabeth had recognized that he was older than he was when she last knew him. That the gulf of time proved to be so large should not come as a surprise. She was now one and thirty years old. In a marriage of such duration, this pregnancy would not be the first. How many babies had she birthed? How many still survived? Would she recognize them as her own when she saw them? Would she, Elizabeth wondered, recognize herself in a mirror?

Realizing she did not know him well enough to judge how old ten years passing made him, Elizabeth asked, "How old are you, sir?"

"Not yet forty," was his reply.

"Forgive me," Elizabeth said, though she did not feel she had done any wrong but in fact considered herself the wronged party, "I am finding this rather difficult to comprehend."

"The apothecary advised that you should not take on anything that requiring concentration," Darcy said. "Perhaps all of this is beyond your powers at this time. You must concentrate on rest, both for your body and your mind." He ran his hand over his face. "When you are rested, you will be more yourself."

"I assure you," Elizabeth said, affronted, "that no injury could damage my mental powers such that the concept of matrimony would be beyond my comprehension."

"Perhaps not matrimony itself," Darcy conceded, "but finding yourself married to me, and finding our marriage as old as it is."

"You see what a strange circumstance it is," she said, feeling some fleeting relief. "You know our acquaintance has not been easy."

"I admit we did not have the best of beginnings," he said, "but you must understand, that was many years ago. We have moved beyond all of that."

"It is very recent to me," she answered. "I have no other conception of you but the one I first formed when you came to Netherfield."

"Our meetings in Hertfordshire that first autumn is all you know of me?" Darcy asked sharply.

It was hard for her to determine how he felt about that. His accent was normally so sedate — a fashionable ennui towards the world. His reaction to the idea of her only knowing him in Hertfordshire was caught by a powerful emotion, but she could hardly tell what. He could have been pleased to have her forget how terribly he behaved in their later meetings or hurt to think their acquaintance was so trifling.

Taking a small amount of pity on him, Elizabeth added, "I should like to forget that we met again in the spring, but that I can recall perfectly."

To her surprise, his reaction to this was categorized largely by relief. He further compounded her surprise by saying, "Then the circumstance you find yourself in now cannot be so surprising. You know my sentiments."

"Knowing your sentiments does nothing to alter my own."

After struggling a moment to find his voice, Darcy said, "Your opinions are not so unalterable."

"On the contrary," Elizabeth replied, "I always believe in first impressions."

He stood swiftly and paced about the room. "You will not," he said after sufficiently expressing his agitation, "object to the midwife visiting you?"

"I have no objection to that at all," she answered.

Mr. Darcy paced more, started to say something several times without much success, and finally addressed his words to the mantle piece, "I shall send her in directly."

He fled from the room.

Elizabeth was not upset to see him go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Bruises**  
Chapter Two

* * *

The midwife's examination of the babe was a simple matter. Elizabeth still ached, but even she could not object to such easy instructions as eat sweets and fruit, then wait. A few minutes was enough to produce the desired effect of the baby's movements. The midwife then helped Elizabeth turn to lie on her side, and asked that she announce each time she felt an additional movement. It took an hour and a half for Elizabeth to reach the unspoken goal of ten such announcements. She was to repeat this procedure every day, and alert the midwife should it take longer than two hours to feel ten movements. Within a few days, the midwife was confident Elizabeth would know the baby's most active times of day and she should make the effort to count the movements then.

After the midwife departed, Elizabeth slept again.

When she next awoke, Elizabeth petitioned the maid at her bedside for information. The same young woman, this time sewing a man's shirt, rang for Mr. Darcy to be alerted yet again, but also answered some of Elizabeth's questions. They were at Pemberley, a name that required no further elucidation. Thanks to the raptures of Miss Bingley, Elizabeth was well versed in the many splendors of Mr. Darcy's large estate in Derbyshire. Twenty hours had passed since the accident, which occurred when herself and Mr. Darcy were touring a wing of the old stone house that they intended to have torn down and rebuilt. That the wing had gone neglected for several generations was the source of the wall sconces' regretful tendency to fall and strike women upon the head.

Mr. Darcy was no less agitated when he entered anew than when Elizabeth had last seen him, but he had grown in his ability to speak to her. With perfect civility, if not perfect composure, he asked that Elizabeth allow the children to visit with her. They had spent the previous evening and night in a frightful state of anxiety, he assured her, and he wished to give them what relief their mother's current condition could make them feel.

Immediately upon Elizabeth's agreeing to this, Darcy turned to the maid and said, "Have Miss Weston bring the girls." The maid curtsied and disappeared to deliver the message.

Elizabeth ran her hands over the protrusion of her belly. Ten years they had been married. She could not imagine such a thing. How many children could she have been delivered of in ten years? Multiple girls, clearly. Hopefully, she had not inherited her mother's unfortunate inability to bear sons.

Unable to endure waiting in silence, Elizabeth asked, "How many children do we have?"

He said, "Three," but was clearly of a mind to say more when Miss Darcy was announced.

Slight and frail with red-rimmed eyes, Miss Darcy wasted no time at all climbing upon Elizabeth's bed and nestling against her mother's side. Elizabeth's arms wound around the child of their own accord.

Her voice was thick and shaky as she repeated, "Mama, Mama" over and over again. Fearing Miss Darcy might begin to sob, but unable to offer any true condolences, Elizabeth held her and cooed.

Quite unmoved by his daughter's display, Darcy said, "Where is Julia?"

He had said _girls_, Elizabeth remembered. Two daughters and a son, then, with another babe on the way.

Miss Darcy raised her head from her mother's shoulder, took a deep breath and said in a very controlled voice, "She did not wish to come in." Elizabeth surmised Darcy's children to be well-versed with his ill-temper. Her arms tightened around the girl she held. She deserved a better mother — one who would not forget her, one who would not subject her to her father's moods and general dislike of humanity. She certainly deserved a better father.

Mr. Darcy frowned. "What nonsense is that?" he asked.

"She said Fitzwilliam and Thomas should see Mama first."

"Did she object to your visiting your mother?"

"No, sir."

"Where is she now?"

"I do not know. She walked with us from the schoolroom."

Muttering something under his breath, Darcy rose and stalked out of the room.

Elizabeth's lips curled involuntarily into a smile. Mr. Darcy should have known marrying herself would reward him with troublesome daughters. Neither Mr. nor Miss Darcy had treated their exchange as though it was unusual. Elizabeth suspected Miss Julia gave her parents grief quite regularly.

Darcy returned with a fair-haired girl in his arms. Physical resemblance between the two girls was fleeting. Miss Darcy had a dark complexion while Miss Julia was blond and pale. Miss Darcy was almost unnaturally thin; Miss Julia was stout.

Darcy set her down and in a tone that broke no argument said, "Apologize to your aunt."

"I am sorry, Aunt Darcy," Julia said dutifully.

The lack of resemblance between the girls — cousins, when Elizabeth had supposed them to be sisters — was explained. Miss Darcy's earlier comment, in which she named two boys, allowed Elizabeth to infer that she had in fact one daughter, and two sons.

Her eyes flickered towards Darcy for a moment, then to Julia. "Do not make yourself uneasy," Elizabeth said kindly, "you have nothing to apologize for. I am very glad you are come to visit me."

"Should we not call for Fitzwilliam and Thomas?" Julia asked.

"Aunt is awake and talking to us," Darcy replied, "but she is still very ill. The boys will visit with her after yourself and Eliza."

Accepting this, Julia addressed Elizabeth: "I thought I should visit you last, because you are not my mama. Uncle says it is not fair of me to say things like that, because you love me and raised me since I was four years old and take care of me better than my real mama. That is why I had to apologize."

Elizabeth hardly knew how to process this information. That Darcy felt Julia had been disrespectful was understood well enough, but that she should have a niece whose parents were unable or unwilling to care for their daughter made her blood run cold. Surely, if one of her sisters had died, Darcy would have told her before presenting her with the orphan. Even Mr. Darcy could not be that cold-hearted. Perhaps she was an illegitimate child of his. Elizabeth could well imagine he would be unwilling to leave his own issue in the hands of a woman upon the town, yet also too proud to acknowledge the connection openly.

"You are forgiven," Elizabeth said. "Please do not think upon it again."

With this encouragement, Julia eased herself onto Elizabeth's bed as well and curled up against her other side. "It is difficult to be the eldest," she sighed.

Gravely, Elizabeth nodded. "I am certain that it is. Growing up, I was second, so I am afraid I cannot tell exactly what difficulties you face."

"Sometimes," Julia confessed, "I am supposed to be first. But other times, I have to wait for the boys to take a turn."

"I am second!" Miss Elizabeth Darcy chimed in, eager to be like her mother. "Except, I am also first, because I am younger than Julia, but I am Mama and Papa's first baby."

Ticking off on her fingers, Julia added, "And Fitzwilliam is third and second and first!"

"So many at once!" Elizabeth exclaimed, charmed by the girls' playfulness. "How does he manage?"

"He is third-oldest," Julia explained, "And you and Uncle had him second, and, he is the heir and inherits everything first!"

"Thomas is not first at anything," Eliza added. "He is the baby, until the new baby comes. Then I am not sure what he is."

"He is your brother," Darcy said dryly.

That was enough segue for a child, for Eliza then announced, "I hope the new baby is a girl."

"The new baby will be a boy," Darcy replied.

Both of the girls were deeply affronted by this proclamation and began arguing with him at once. Julia insisted it was impossible to tell for certain until the baby came out. Eliza felt she had too many brothers already and a third would not be fair. The girls talked over one another so much that Darcy could hardly reply to one of them before the other had something more to say, but he certainly tried to defend himself against them both.

Elizabeth could not wonder at the smile lines around his eyes. It was evident the girls brought him much joy. All too soon, he called for Miss Weston to collect them. Having assured themselves of Elizabeth's relative health, they were now expected to attend to their studies in the schoolroom.

"I expect both of you to play after dinner," Darcy told them as their governess guided them out. "No duets," he added. "A solo each." Elizabeth could barely keep her countenance at the grumbling this produced from the two potential performers. Her husband caught her eye and grinned. "I regret you will not hear them. They are skilled, though they would rather devote their time to other pursuits."

"Miss Darcy," Miss Weston prompted.

Eliza blushed and hurried to say, "I thank you, Papa. I shall look forward to playing this evening. Mama, I hope you are feeling better."

"I am feeling much better for having seen you, dearest," Elizabeth replied.

"Miss Wickham," Miss Weston urged.

Julia echoed Eliza's sentiments, but Elizabeth could scarcely hear them for the shock. She tried to catch Darcy's eye, but he was resolutely not looking at her. His attention was all upon the children. When the time came to reply to Julia's best wishes for her health, Elizabeth knew her reply was not as warm as it had been to her daughter. The girls were equally strangers to her. Elizabeth could not claim to have any preference for the one that was her blood. It was the surprise alone that kept her from making the reply she should have.

"Miss Weston," Darcy said, stone faced and cold, "have Nurse bring the boys to visit their mother."

"Yes, sir."

"Do not speak to Julia so," Darcy said once the children had departed. "You will make her feel unwelcome. She already thought it was not her place to visit with you."

"I was surprised to hear her addressed formally," Elizabeth said faintly, "that is all."

"Did you have expectations for her name?" he wondered.

"None at all," Elizabeth confessed. "But Miss Wickham? Is she any relation to Mr. George Wickham?"

"His daughter," Darcy answered. "The boys are come. We will speak of this after."

Elizabeth estimated Fitzwilliam the younger to be of about six years of age, and Thomas to be roughly three. They both resembled Julia in that they were stout, but had Eliza's dark hair. Fitzwilliam was very poorly named, as he was as unlike his father as a boy could be. All worry he had felt for his mama vanished upon seeing her, and he spoke merrily without any cause to stop. Elizabeth learned he was studying his letters, he had a wonderful collection of tin soldiers, his pony needed to be re-shoed and he thought he once saw a cricket in the nursery, but was not entirely sure yet. Fitzwilliam was open to the possibility that it could have been a very small and noisy grasshopper.

Thomas pillowed his head on his mother's chest and said little. Elizabeth was unsure if it was a natural reserve on his part or if he was simply unable to find an opening. Darcy said quietly, not waiting for a pause in his more ebullient son's speech, that Thomas had only recently stopped suckling at her breast, and may be confused as to what, if anything, he was expected to be doing. Elizabeth, at a similar loss, stroked the boy's hair and held him, which seemed to satisfy both Thomas and his father.

Fitzwilliam had not nearly exhausted his topics for conversation when Nurse came to escort the boys away.

"We will have Fitzwilliam move to the schoolroom and Miss Weston's charge soon enough," Darcy said after Elizabeth bid her farewells to her sons. "I am sure you are as curious as I to know what Thomas will say, once he has the opportunity to speak for himself."

"The thought did cross my mind," she admitted. "But they are both fine boys."

"Yes," Darcy agreed. "We were beyond pleased when they were born. Fitzwilliam, especially so."

"You must have been pleased to know I could bear you a son," she said. "Other members of my family may have made you suppose it could not be done."

"There is no need to twist my words, Elizabeth. You know very well that is not what I meant."

She knew nothing of the kind, but let the matter drop. There was no need to anger him on that score before she knew the truth about Miss Wickham. If she upset him now, she might never learn how Julia came to join their family party. She would prefer to know more about Miss Wickham than canvas the obvious desire a man of property had for sons.

"Tell me of Julia," Elizabeth requested. "I had thought your friendship with Mr. Wickham beyond repair."

"Julia may make her home at Pemberley as long as she wishes," Darcy replied. "Her father, however, is not to be admitted on any of my lands."

This information made Elizabeth uncomfortable. "How is it that the daughter is permitted to live here while the father is cast out?" she wondered. "And her mother? Where is her mother?"

"Mrs. Wickham resides in the North, with her husband, where he has a commission in the regulars. They are unfortunate in Mr. Wickham's choice of occupation. An officer is expected to live as a gentlemen without the resources of the lifestyle. This evil is compounded by Mrs. Wickham's lack of frugality and good sense. For several years after their marriage, they regularly applied to ourselves for financial assistance. This, we could scarcely refuse. Even in spite of the assistance of ourselves and the Bingleys, the money was used ill. The children lived in neglect and poverty. Julia came to live at Pemberley a number of years ago. We acted in the vain hope that reducing their numbers would improve the Wickhams' ability to live within their means. I have since sponsored her elder brother in the Navy. The Wickhams have a third child currently in their care, but I may yet send her elsewhere."

The story was outrageous. "And Julia accepts all of this?"

"She was four years old when she arrived," Darcy said. "She has barely any memory of her life before joining this household. I flatter myself that she finds us to be suitable replacements for her parents, and here she wants for nothing. She has a governess, a playmate, and all manner of things a girl nine years of age could wish for."

"What would happen if her parents decided they wanted her returned to them?"

Darcy's expression said plainly that he did not consider that to be likely, but he said, "We would of course relinquish guardianship of Julia, should her parents prefer it. However, they are far from insensible to the advantages that she has under our care, or of how much money they save in not having to feed or cloth her. I suspect when she marries will be when Mr. Wickham decides to make trouble. He knows better than to importune me, but should his daughter marry a young man with more wealth than experience in the world, he may try to make it to his advantage."

"You have thought much about her future," Elizabeth observed. "I wonder how much of a say in it you will allow Julia to have."

Darcy began pacing. "Do not think," he cautioned, "that I am unaware that I may be making the same mistakes as my father. Indeed the thought haunts me."

"Mr. Wickham was a great favorite of your father," Elizabeth added, knowing of no mistakes the elder Mr. Darcy had made, aside from wording his will too vaguely. "His godson, I believe?"

"Yes, that is so," Darcy replied. "Julia, while not my goddaughter, has been raised beside my daughter as Mr. Wickham was raised beside me. They play together, they attend their lessons together, they share their secrets. I have taken great care to raise her to be sensible and responsible — them all," he corrected, "to be so. But we will not always be in the best way to observe her, watch over her. Julia could find herself in the same trouble her parents made someday."

The financial troubles of Mr. and Mrs. Wickham were Darcy's doing. While he may have tried his best to relieve their burdens, Elizabeth could see he still had too much pride to admit to his own fault in creating them. "How do you propose to keep Julia from making the mistake of being impoverished?" she asked.

Darcy pressed his lips tightly together, mastering his obvious anger before asserting, "I hope to have her married to a gentlemen of good character and firm morals as soon as it may be reasonable. I cannot abide a young lady coming out earlier than seventeen, but sometimes I fear we must present Julia younger than that." He sighed, and sat at Elizabeth's bedside. "Her mother," Darcy said, "was married at sixteen. It was a patched-up affair. I sometimes question the wisdom of expecting Julia to wait longer than that to make a match. She may turn out as eager as her mother."

"Have you given Eliza's coming out such meticulous planning?"

"We," Darcy stressed, "have been of an accord that Eliza should not be out until Julia is wed. We hoped she would fear meeting young men less, if her particular friend has already made a conquest. Additionally, we do not wish for any appearance of competition between them. That could present difficulties."

"They are different sorts of girls," Elizabeth protested. "When the time comes - which is many years off, let us remember - they will attract different sorts of men."

"Indeed they shall. For Julia will attract men interested in a pretty face and easy manners and Eliza will attract men interested in a large dowry. To allow either to feel inferior the other's assets is too dangerous a game."

"I am surprised at you," Elizabeth said. "Julia is Eliza's inferior by birth. I would expect you to want the distinction felt at every turn."

Darcy pressed his mouth with his hand for a moment then said, "That would hardly promote peace within the house."

"I meant my words in praise of you," Elizabeth confessed. "It is good of you to treat Julia so. You have been generous towards her in ways I know your feelings must revolt against."

"My feelings," he said, "are that she is my daughter. I did not sire her, you did not birth her. Nonetheless, we took her into our home and we have raised her with our children. If, despite all of our intentions otherwise, she reaches her majority unwed and wishes to change her name to Darcy, it is already settled between us that we should allow it.

"I fear repeating my father's mistakes, Elizabeth," Darcy said somberly, "but I cannot ask that child to look on me as a figure to be trusted, respected or loved if I do not give her her due."

Darcy's disappointed feelings where his wife was concerned had already become an object of pity, but Elizabeth was pleased for Darcy's sake that while she could not love him, he had four children to do so.


	3. Chapter 3

**Bruises**  
Chapter Three

* * *

Having expressed an intention to hear the girls play at the pianoforte after they took their dinner, Darcy relinquished Elizabeth to the care of her lady's maid. Miss Perry had easy manners, a pretty face and was unapologetically British. Fashionable ladies preferred their abigail to be French, and if they could not hire a girl from the continent, to at least have an English girl pretend. Elizabeth feared putting on airs of self-importance and fashion would be a necessary survival skill for _Mrs. Darcy_, but she was pleased to know whatever compromises she may have made, Perry was an Englishwoman and she was called such.

Elizabeth liked her immediately. All of the servants she had encountered thus far, from the maid that sat by her while she slept to the midwife, said barely a word to her without Mr. Darcy's permission. Perry's loyalty was to her mistress. She attended to every concern Elizabeth put forth — locations, names, schedules all rolled easily off Perry's tongue, with a smile. Perry took care to familiarize Elizabeth with her own apartment. Designed to be the mistress's suite, the chamber hosted three attached rooms. The largest had been originally intended as a nursery, with a smaller bedchamber connected to it for the children's nanny. The third room was the original dressing room. Some generations back, the nursery and small bedchamber had been converted to a dressing room and private sitting room for the mistress. The original dressing room was refurbished for the master's use.

Perry expected Mr. Darcy and his valet, Wigfield, to make an appearance at five o'clock for the master to dress for dinner. She assured Elizabeth her modesty had nothing to fear from Wigfield, as the mistress would be in her own dressing room preparing for the same.

"I had not realized I was expected in the dining room," Elizabeth said. She had understood the rest the apothecary so ardently recommended to mean she was not permitted out of bed. She was anxious to see more of the house and determine her role in it, but rather exhausted.

"Not to worry, ma'am," Perry replied. "There are no expectations of the kind. I only thought a fresh nightdress might be desirable, and if you would like, perhaps a bath."

Elizabeth found both suggestions to be exemplary and wasted no time expressing it.

Her dinner, she further learned, would be served to her in her private sitting room and selected from a menu she herself had planned for tonight's meal earlier in the week. Until the time for her ablutions came, Perry offered to sit and read aloud.

* * *

She was larger than she remembered, in every respect. After Perry had prepared her bath and left Elizabeth some time to soak, she was able to examine the changes ten years had wrought upon her person. A steady schedule of pregnancies and births had left her hips wider, her breasts larger. From the increase of her belly, Elizabeth suspected she would be delivered of her fourth child in two, perhaps three months. There was more girth in her arms and legs. Even her hair was longer that she felt it should be.

After a lather and rinse, Perry helped Elizabeth into a fresh nightdress and dressing gown. Quickly, Elizabeth's hair was braided, twisted, pinned to her head and covered with a cap, fitting for a married woman. She could find the ghost of her former self in the mirror. Behind the face of a matron and mother, she thought she could find the traces of the maid she once was. The bloom of her youth had long faded, but Elizabeth could only suppose the time for such vanities had long passed. Her face and figure had never been enough to please her mother, or, she supposed, Mr. Darcy, but Elizabeth herself had been proud enough of her appearance.

She walked without assistance from her dressing room into her sitting room. Elizabeth was pleased with the accomplishment and began to hope the need for bed rest had been exaggerated. It would do her no good to lie about, waiting for others to come to her. The duties and joys of her situation should be sought out as soon as may be. She hoped one more good night's rest would have her fit to stroll through the house.

The room itself was delicate and tasteful. The walls were papered yellow, with a very complimentary sofa situated at an attractive angle from the fireplace. Crudely painted screens protected occupants of the room from growing too heated by the fire. Elizabeth allowed herself the liberty of examining the screens — efforts by Eliza and Julia, no doubt. There was a desk as well. Constructed for a woman's use, it was a rather large piece none the less. She pictured herself seated there to write letters and balance household accounts.

Elizabeth had been admiring a leather-bound folio marked _Pemberley — 1822 _in her own hand when she was startled at the door opening. She turned, and at meeting her eye, her husband bowed. She curtsied reflexively.

"Please," Darcy said, "do not trouble yourself with the accounts. You are not well."

"I had not intended to do any figures, sir," she replied mildly. "I was merely curious."

He nodded. Elizabeth watched him stalk to a set of table and chairs. He looked formal and severe in a black coat and trousers. She realized he intended to eat with her and flushed with embarrassment. His dress was very nice, like what she would expect for a London dinner party. Her own was so informal Elizabeth did not even wish for a footman to see her in such a state.

At Darcy's insistence, she sat. He seated himself across from her and signaled to Perry for the first setting of the table to begin.

To Elizabeth's very great relief, a parade of maids attended to the meal. Soup and fish was placed before the diners. For Elizabeth, who had eaten only sweets and candies since she awoke, the carrot soup and cod was heavenly. Darcy said little as they ate and what he did say was for her comfort. Elizabeth could not be too warm or too cold; her serving of fish had to be the superior one. She could not account for his reasons for behaving so — whether it was his reserve, anxiety for her comfort or if he recognized her hunger and cared not to distract her. Whatever it was, it suited her quite well to be allowed to enjoy the meal quietly.

When the soup and fish had been enjoyed, their plates were removed to allow for the rest of the first course to be set. It was a selection from the set menu, Perry had told her. However large a family dinner in the dining room might be, only five dishes were placed on the sitting room table. Darcy carved the mutton and served Elizabeth her portion. Of the bacon and greens, pheasant, spinach and mince pies, she was permitted to take what she would.

He made for an odd companion. That Darcy was gently-bred was evident in his every action. He had been nothing but attentive when they were in company together, yet he was also so quiet. Once, she recalled with shame, she had forced him into conversation because she thought he would dislike it. It had seemed attractive to her former self to force Mr. Darcy into doing things he would find unpleasant. She would like for him to speak now, but his breeding, while good enough for bowing and serving, was lacking in polite conversation. If Elizabeth made conversation painful for Darcy, the end result could only mean more difficulties for herself. Yet, having never tried, she was unsure how to make conversation palatable to him.

While she wished to demand information, her own breeding could but balk at the idea of such rudeness. She should at least pay him the compliment of conversation that might interest him first, but she had no idea what that might be. The children seemed a safe enough topic. He was interested in them, certainly, and Elizabeth knew parents could not tire of speaking about their children.

"The screens," she said suddenly, "am I correct in thinking they were painted by Eliza and Julia?"

That Darcy was startled was evident, but he recovered enough to say, "Yes. The children are rarely permitted in this room. It has taken on a rather fantastic quality to them, I believe. The girls were very proud that you wished to have their efforts displayed in your private room."

"I suppose only the most important guests are allowed in such a room," Elizabeth replied. She had meant it as a joke when she said it, but it quickly lost any humor. One was required to pass through her bedroom and dressing room to enter the sitting room. It was natural that she would host only people with whom she was very intimate in this room.

But Darcy did laugh, and said, "Yes, that is so."

"Perhaps you should give me an approved guest list," Elizabeth said. "The distinction should only be felt by the correct persons, of course."

He smiled. "Myself, mostly. Perry, of course. The housekeeper, but only once a week. Jane, should she be down. I believe that covers all the principals."

Elizabeth's resolution to give Darcy some pleasure in the conversation could not hold up after he himself had introduced Jane. She was wild for information about her beloved sister.

"Jane, tell me, how is Jane?"

Darcy set down his utensils. "Jane, you shall be pleased to know, has been married to her Mr. Bingley these ten years."

It was difficult for Elizabeth to restrain her exclamations of pleasure at such wonderful news. Nothing could be more good or natural for the dearest girl in the world to have married such an amiable man. From the first moments they had met, it had been evident to Elizabeth that her beloved sister had found the man who would make her the happiest person alive.

Darcy had more to say on the subject of Jane and Mr. Bingley. Elizabeth listened eagerly. "They stayed at Netherfield for the first year after the marriage. It had been the hope of Bingley's father that he should buy an estate and they decided Netherfield did not suit. You will be happy to know they are settled only thirty miles from Pemberley."

Elizabeth's mind was racing, concocting schemes to visit with Jane as soon as possible. Thirty miles was surely nothing to a man of Mr. Darcy's resources. And Mr. Bingley's! With the purchase of an estate, his income must be augmented by the tenants. She could be with Jane within a half a day's time!

"I expect the Bingleys will visit as soon as they are able," Darcy continued. "Jane was delivered of a daughter not a fortnight ago."

The news was both exciting and terrible! Jane, with a new baby! Her dear Jane, a wonderful, caring, sensible mother! But it was impossible she could come to Pemberley before she was churched.

"We must go to her!" Elizabeth said, but Darcy's face was sullen and discouraging.

"You are not able to travel. I realize," he said heavily, "that it must be difficult to know that Jane is so near, yet you are unable to see her, but I promise, you will be reunited as soon as one of you is well enough to make the trip."

"How many children do they have?" Elizabeth's appetite for news of Jane far eclipsed her appetite for the meal.

"This, a daughter named for her mother, is their third. Charles and Henry are closer to Eliza and Julia in age. I cannot account for the gap, though I suspect you were enough in your sister's confidence that you knew its cause at one time."

Elizabeth tried to temper her imagination from conjuring stories to explain Jane's private affairs. "What of my other sisters?"

"Mary remains in Hertfordshire. Her husband is in the law. He is to inherit Uncle Phillips' practice, I understand." As strange as it had been to hear Darcy speak of Jane with all the affection of a brother, Elizabeth had been too eager for the news to dwell upon it. Regardless, affection for Jane was so natural that it was inevitable that Darcy should come to care for her. That his familiarity extended to other, less worthy members of her family was jarring.

"Have they any children?"

"One, as of yet." With nothing more to say about Mary, Darcy moved on, "Catherine is settled closer to us, in a village about fifty miles from Pemberley. Her husband is a rector, and an excellent man. I regret their responsibilities to their parish will prevent them from visiting you. We may prevail upon Catherine to spend a week with us, but she would likely refuse more time than that. Which is not to say," he hurried to add, "that she will not be very concerned for you when word of what has happened reaches her."

Elizabeth was impressed by this account of her most insipid sister. "It sounds as though Kitty has grown up very well."

"Catherine is easily influenced," Darcy observed. "She has come under the care of an informed, respectable, Christian man, and as a result, found all of those excellent qualities in herself."

"And Lydia?"

He seemed confused. "We have discussed her regrettable circumstances," Darcy replied.

Try as she might, Elizabeth could not recall Darcy mentioning Lydia at any time since she had awoken. She pressed her lips together as frightening possibilities burst into her mind. The injury to her head had already robbed her of ten years. Perhaps its machinations were on-going, and she would forget every conversation only hours after it had taken place.

"Perhaps," Elizabeth suggested, "perhaps you might remind me."

"Dearest," Darcy said, rising from his seat to come by Elizabeth's side, "do not make yourself uneasy. The fault is mine." He crouched by her side and took her hand in his. She flushed at the contact and forced herself to look away from him. He had been eating, and so, was without his gloves. "I realize now, I had not used her Christian name. Lydia is married to Mr. Wickham. She is Julia's mother."

The shock Elizabeth felt was less than the shock she would have expected. Wickham had favored Mary King; before that, he had liked herself best of all the young ladies in Meryton. That he would marry Lydia was wholly unexpected, yet less surprising than herself marrying Mr. Darcy. "I," Elizabeth said, when she recognized that she must say something, "I had not noticed any signs of regard between them."

Darcy's face darkened. "You are an astute observer," he replied, "for there is no affection in their match whatsoever."

Elizabeth wanted to withdraw her hand from Darcy's, but his grip was too strong. She did not wish for the struggle that doing so would require. "I know you dislike him," she said, very kindly, she thought, "but Lydia has only her charms to recommend her. A man would not marry her without affection. Indeed, it could be the only inducement."

"Mr. Wickham never had any intention of marrying your sister," he said with the utmost care. His tone was as sedate and passionless as he could make it. "He convinced her to go to Scotland with him and hid her in Town instead. When they were found, he was prevailed upon to marry her."

Elizabeth was able to translate 'prevailed upon' to mean money had been exchanged easily enough. She was mortified by the embarrassment to her family and heartbroken to know Lydia must be miserable in the circumstances of Mrs. Wickham. "Stupid girl," she whispered.

"You understand," Darcy said, "I hope, why we took Edmund and Julia from such parents."

Edmund could only be the elder brother in the Navy Darcy had mentioned previously. "It was very good of you to do so," Elizabeth told him. "They must be very grateful."

"We did not do it for gratitude," he said. Darcy noticed then that he still held her hand. He raised it to his lips and pressed a long kiss upon the back of it before releasing her. Rather than returning to his place at at the table, he alerted the maids standing sentry that they were finished with the first course. The dishes were cleared and replaced with a small assortment of fruits and cheeses.

Elizabeth found it hard to sample the new offering with his kiss branding her hand. The spot he had kissed was a little wet. She both wanted to wipe the spot dry and feared doing so would be strange and rude. The awkward silence persisted through dessert. The second course was laid down. Elizabeth tried to partake of the meats and pies, of the vegetables smothered in thick butter sauce. Every bite of the meal had been like no food she had ever had before. She had never felt a hunger equal to what she felt tonight. That, she must attribute to the baby growing inside of her.

She was a wife in body, but her mind was an ignorant maid's. Elizabeth could hardly imagine allowing this man privileges with her body, but she knew that she had. She had the proof of four times, and was not so naive to think that was all. Though she was unwilling to ask him about what took place in her bed, she did want an account of how he came to be there. Though she had resolved earlier to ask Jane for the history of her marriage, Elizabeth needed the information faster than correspondence could be expected to give it.

"If your loquacious mood can hold out for another explanation," Elizabeth said, "I should like to hear further accounts of our life."

Darcy, who had fallen victim to his reserve and internal reflections was startled out of his silence by this appeal of Elizabeth's. "Of course," he quickly replied. "You need only ask."

"When last we discussed this topic," she said carefully, "I am afraid you were unable to speak much on it. However, if you are willing, I should like to know what happened after your visit to the parsonage."

Immediately, she could recognize in his countenance that Darcy was struggling for words. Finally, he said, "I know not what to say. It has been years since we last felt this subject merited any conversation."

"That helps me very little," Elizabeth confessed. "I should never have thought our connection possible and would like to know how it became so."

"Are you quite certain you remember our entire conversation?"

"I can recall your taking leave and what I did afterwards," she replied.

"We have spoken so much on what I did, after treating you so abominably." Darcy smiled, just slightly, yet with such affection that Elizabeth began to suppose his regard for her was as strong as he professed it to be. "I should like to know how you spent the rest of your evening. That, I do not believe you ever shared with me."

Accepting that she could not demand information of him without giving her own answers when applied to, Elizabeth rose to the challenge and admitted, "I cried. I am not sure the duration. As long as I could, I suppose."

His smile faded and he said softly, "I was not worth all that."

"This is ineffectual storytelling on your part," Elizabeth replied. "I ask you how we came to be wed and you tell me that you are not worth tears. Sir, if you are not worth my tears, how is it you can be worth my hand?"

"I fear you will be disappointed with my storytelling regardless," he said, "for I did not kidnap you to the continent and lock you in a decrepit castle until you agreed to marry me, and those are the stories ladies find most intriguing."

"I am not looking to be intrigued," she replied, not feeling equal to continuing this game. Another time, she might find his attempts at teasing and humor pleasing. "My only wish is to understand."

Acceptably chastised, Darcy returned to the story of their courtship. "I was made," he admitted, "very angry by your refusal." That, Elizabeth had been well aware of at the time and hardly needed it explained. "I had persuaded myself that you had expected my address. I was humiliated to be wrong, felt myself very ill-used and indulged in a fair bit of self-pity that was entirely beneath me."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to defend her own actions, but Darcy silenced her by raising his hand. She was the only one who could not recall the events of the following morning, she reminded herself. She was the only one who had not discussed the event so thoroughly that it no longer wanted for discussion. Darcy knew her feelings on that evening. Darcy knew why she had said everything she said. She had no reason to repeat it, he no desire to hear it.

"When I rose the next morning, I wrote you a letter. At the time I wrote it," Darcy said with a sigh, "It has been years since we last discussed this topic and I dislike dwelling upon it - at the time I wrote it, I felt myself calm and composed. Afterwards, I realized it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit and parts of it had been intended to cause you pain."

Mr. Darcy had been growing in her estimation. He had displayed generosity, goodness and care. This Mr. Darcy, vengeful and cruel, was closer to the man she expected. To be right gave her very little satisfaction, given her situation. What sort of man could claim to love a woman and upon not getting his own way, immediately intend to harm her? If that was Mr. Darcy's conception of love, she wanted nothing to do with it.

"My object," he explained further, "in writing to you was to defend myself against what accusations you had made that I could. I was not in such a frame of mind to rationally discuss the incidents with your sister or Mr. Wickham that evening at the parsonage, but after I left you, I realized I could not let it lie. I wrote a letter to explain my actions, which I delivered to you while on the grounds at Rosings. I took care that we would be unobserved. Subsequently, you were kind enough to read it."

"Where is it now? I should like to read it."

But that was to be impossible. "You burnt it upon my request. As I said, some of the letter was composed with the intention of causing you pain. After you accepted my hand, I did not wish for you to have the option of reading it again, for fear of how your feelings might change should you think on my phrasing. You were not concerned with such a possibility, but were kind enough to do as I asked.""I seem to spend a great deal of time being kind enough to do what you wish me to do," Elizabeth observed.

"I was born the heir of a great estate," he replied, "and became master of my own destiny at too young an age. I was very used to getting my own way, and it took you some years to train me out of it. In the interim, you occasionally condescended to obey me on matters I felt strongly about."

"And this letter," Elizabeth replied, turning the subject back to what most intrigued her, "it was enough to change my mind? For all of your pretensions of causing pain, it must have been very prettily worded."

"Good heavens, no!" he said with some surprise. "I gave you the letter without any intention of ever seeing you again!"

"Then what was the purpose of giving it at all?"

"I did not...I did not like the thought of you thinking ill of me," he replied. "That you could exist in the world, disliking me, I found the idea unbearable. In my mind, my actions were just. I felt a defense necessary, even if I did not harbor hope of seeing you again."

"Evidently, that scheme did not work as planned."

He smiled. "No. To my great pleasure, Aunt and Uncle Gardiner intervened and brought you into Derbyshire the following summer. You had taken every precaution to avoid me, but we met by accident nonetheless."

"You must have been very surprised to have your scheme overthrown," Elizabeth suggested.

"I was!" he said, eagerly agreeing. "Surprise was not the emotion you attributed to me at the time, but indeed, it was all I felt."

This statement of his, more than anything he had said thus far, made Elizabeth realize that he had been in her confidence. Darcy knew her thoughts, fears and feeling of the past decade better than she knew her own. "What did I think?"

"You feared that I would think you had changed your mind and intended to ensnare me. Of course, I could never think such a thing of you. Truly, the thought never entered my mind.""So, you wrote me a letter, we met in Derbyshire and were married." Elizabeth wondered at this version of events. From Darcy's manner of telling it, Elizabeth could not determine her past self's feelings. No where in the course of the account did Darcy paint himself as a lover.

Yet, he agreed with her summary. "Essentially. We were separated briefly owing to Lydia's elopement, but soon followed her to the alter."

"Yes," she said, frustration building at his dig at Lydia. "I can see how that would have made you reassess courting me." It was not even that she felt it unreasonable for a lover to reject a young lady with such a foolish sister. Darcy had every concern for her physical comfort and appetite for food, but none at all where her feelings about her family were concerned. In telling the tale of their courtship, he should at least pretend he had not thought better of it.

"Not at all!" he insisted. Elizabeth gaped at him. "We were in Lambton together when you received the news. You were wanted at Longbourn; I could not immediately follow. That is all I meant by our separation."

Elizabeth chewed her lip, thinking. There was a lot he was not telling her. His story, as given, was a bare account that, in her opinion, made very little sense. He had given her a cruel letter, followed by a chance meeting? That was not enough to induce a woman into matrimony. Something else had taken place, of that, she was sure.

"If I have more questions," Elizabeth began, "you will answer them?"

"Of course," he replied. "This account was very general," Darcy admitted. "It must seem strange to think so short an intercourse could change so much. Your feelings changed, at least. My own were rather indomitable."

Blushing, Elizabeth turned her attention to her plate. If the impudence of the match had not been enough to overcome his feelings, it appeared the familiarity of ten years and the loss of her figure had not done it, either. The biggest question that remained was had she ever loved him?

She should ask.

Darcy had spent the meal smiling at her, answering her questions and ensuring her comfort. Even if theirs had been a marriage made for prudence or convenience on her part, to ask such a question would necessarily cause him pain. It would be tantamount to saying she thought the idea of any woman's loving him absurd. Even if he could answer that she had loved him dearly, and was able to produce proof, the absence of love in her words now could only injure him.

After cake, Elizabeth decided to retire. Darcy offered to sit with her and read if she would like, but she declined this offer, citing exhaustion. He would not need to wake her for supper, Elizabeth assured him. She needed rest and the chance to reflect on all that she had learned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Bruises**  
Chapter Four

* * *

Elizabeth was of a constitution that demanded constant activity. While she accepted the wisdom of bed rest and intended to lie down should she feel tired, she also aimed to be as active as she could. The best thing for her spirits would be a long walk, but between her injury and how far she had increased, such a thing was not possible. It would do Elizabeth no good to lie about all day. In bed, she would have no way to occupy her time but dwell upon her situation. Her own apartment had grown familiar over the past day, but the majority of the house and most of all, her husband, remained a mystery. Through Perry, Elizabeth had been informed of how she filled her time. She hoped to adhere to this routine as much as possible. Hiding from her life at Pemberley would teach her to fear it. It was much better to live normally.

Elizabeth rose at seven o'clock, roused by her lady's maid. Unwilling to face another day clad only in her nightdress, Elizabeth had Perry help her into the morning attire of _Mrs. Darcy_. According to Perry, she met with the housekeeper and cook every morning before breakfast. Usually, these meetings were held in the housekeeper's office and the kitchen, but as a concession to her own convalescence, Elizabeth requested that both of the servants join her in her private room.

Feeling very official — and a bit like a little girl pretending — Elizabeth sat at her desk to await the arrival of her guests. Her entrance was soon followed by tea things and toast, and Mr. Darcy.

Having only her parents' union as a model, Elizabeth was unsure how one should greet their husband in the privacy of their own home. Even if she disliked her husband — and Elizabeth was unsure how she felt towards Mr. Darcy at the moment — she could never behave as her mother did. Feeling rather foolish, Elizabeth rose and curtsied. He bowed.

Darcy's dress was nothing like the previous evening. He wore breeches and boots, a coat of coarse wool and a simply knotted cravat. He must intend some sort of outdoor activity for the morning, though whether it was farming or leisure, Elizabeth could not guess.

Belatedly, she offered tea. Darcy accepted, and Elizabeth was embarrassed to realize she did not know how he took it. She had to accept her own ignorance of ten years' accumulated knowledge. However, she could easily recall the weeks she and Darcy spent as neighborhoods in a small community. The only reason she did not know how he took his tea was her own vindictiveness. When they were in society `together, she had very purposefully ignored his preferences.

Darcy startled when Elizabeth asked if he liked it strong or weak. Even with a memory lapse, he rightfully expected her to know.

Elizabeth's conception of Mr. Darcy was that he was a proud, ill-tempered man. He arranged the lives of those around him to best suit himself and had no scruples in disregarding the wants or needs of his friends. Since she awoke, she had been living with a different man who wore his face. Jane and Mr. Bingley suffered no longer due to Darcy's interference. Mr. Wickham proved himself unworthy of Mr. Darcy's attention, yet it was given regardless. The mysterious house was the home of four children who lived under Darcy's rule with no apparent ill effects. Elizabeth could not say that she liked Mr. Darcy, nor could she say she disliked him. She knew not what to expect of him. She was made uncomfortable by his presence. There was a great disparity of their circumstance. Pemberley was his home; she knew nothing beyond these three rooms. The ten years of their marriage were known only to him. He knew who she was. To Elizabeth, Darcy was a stranger.

The stranger, as it happened, liked his tea strong, with milk and sugar. Elizabeth served it to him, determined to remember this bit of information.

Equally determined to start a real conversation, Elizabeth asked, "Do you always attend my meetings with the housekeeper, sir?"

"Certainly not," he replied. She thought she could hear offense in his tone.

"To what do I owe the pleasure this morning?"

Darcy took a long sip of tea. "I had hoped to carry several points," he said finally.

She waited for him to continue, and when he did not, said "Sir, I can neither agree nor disagree until you tell me what they are."

"Most of the supervision of the household staff is done by the housekeeper. Mrs. Taylor has been with us for six years. She will need some guidance from you, but for you to personally direct the staff is unnecessary. It has always been so."

"From what I have heard," Elizabeth said, "from yourself and Perry both, keeping the books appears to be my only real responsibility in the house."

Darcy nodded. "We keep a competent staff, which allows for you to do most of your work in the parishes. While you are ill, the rectors' wives will take on what they can."

"Parishes?" Elizabeth asked, puzzled.

"Pemberley, Lambton to the west and Kympton to the south," he clarified. "We are the principal family for some miles. You have organized a dame school in both villages and keep the poor clothed and fed. The schools are well-run. I have no doubt they will be able to continue serving local families without your supervision. I trust the families you visit will miss your company, but we can send a boy from the house to deliver meat and clothing."

"Your first point," Elizabeth summarized, "is that your wife has no duties in your household or in town. Sir, I wonder that you took on a wife if you have no use for one." Memories rang in her ears of the disgust he expressed in his proposal.

"You know very well what I was about when I offered for you," he replied. She had offended him with her last barb and while Darcy was trying to master it, he had not yet been successful.

Elizabeth regretted her words in a way she never had before. He was no longer an unwelcome visitor to be punished for his ridiculous pride. He was her husband. Though Elizabeth could scarcely imagine getting along with him, she did not want to live forever at odds with her partner. The unpleasant reality was that Elizabeth did not and could not trust him, yet as his wife, she was entirely in his power. This was not Longbourn, where she knew everyone for miles. This was Pemberley, where she knew nothing. Feigning independence was pointless as long as she needed Darcy, or at least Perry, to help her accomplish anything.

Unable to engage Darcy on the subject of his feelings or confide in him her own, Elizabeth said, "I have always understood a mistress to be essential to the running of a household."

"You are a wife, Elizabeth," Darcy said, sounding very tired as he did so. "I will not deny that I employ a housekeeper to run the house. I have always done so. After we were wed, I considered Mrs. Reynolds, and now Mrs. Taylor, to be an advantage. You are free to employ your time as you wish."

"With the notable exception that I cannot actually do anything," she petulantly pointed out.

"You are ill," Darcy answered. "You will recover."

"What is your plan if I do not?"

He grew very pale. "The headaches," Darcy said with some hesitation, "and exhaustion, those symptoms should decrease with time. When you are able, you will resume your offices in the house and in the parish. In the event you do not remember how these things were done before, it will not be a challenge to learn them a new."

"And the baby?"

"It is my understanding that he will come out when he is of a mind to. If you are afraid, take solace in the three you have been delivered of already. You never gave the midwife any cause to fear for you when our other children were born."

Child-birth was a frightening prospect for any woman, regardless of how many healthy births she had had in the past. For most women, the joy of motherhood and duty to her husband's family were enough to suffer through the pain and fear, but Elizabeth's situation was different. Her mind jumped from a maid of twenty to mother of one and thirty. The children she had were as strange to her as her husband and the one she carried was an unwelcome burden. She carried this child without any recollection of courtship or marriage, without any memory of the marital act or trying to conceive. The excitement when she began to expect they had been successful or any disappointments when they had not were feelings Elizabeth did not get to experience.

Darcy placed his palm upon her stomach. His eyes were trained on the protrusion, expression difficult to read. Elizabeth thought he was pleased, though. "Should you like another child?" she asked.

"I can scarcely believe my good fortune with the ones we have," he answered. "This is beyond anything I dreamed of."

Knowing as she did that the upper classes desired many children, Elizabeth was surprised.

"Families among my connections are always very small," he said, understanding her expression. "My own parents had only myself and Georgiana. Lady Catherine was blessed with only one daughter; the Earl had two sons. It is not for lack of wanting, mind you. Merely…lack of success."

"Have we had disappointments?" she wondered.

"It took longer than we had hoped to conceive Eliza," Darcy confessed. "The boys came easily enough."

"You are very determined that this one shall be a boy," Elizabeth observed.

"I would prefer it."

"Be cautious," she warned. "My parents were eager for sons and were always disappointed."

"Very good of you to remind me, my dear," Mr. Darcy murmured, removing his hand and drawing back from Elizabeth. "I sent an express to your parents yesterday," he explained. "I expect they will receive it today and travel hither immediately. It will not surprise you to know your father rarely sends a precise arrival time ahead. When planning the menu for the coming week, be prepared for an expanded party in three or four days."

The recipient of this news was very glad to have it. Though the days ahead would be difficult, soon the unfamiliar halls of Pemberley would house people she knew and loved. Instead of the strange, one-sided relationship she had with Darcy, she would have a mutual relationship with her mother and father. Some mysteries would be unavoidable, of course, but overall they would be familiar and welcome.

"I am very grateful," Elizabeth said, "for your kindness in inviting my parents."

"It is not a kindness," he replied. "It is necessary, for your piece of mind as well as theirs." He hurried to add, "Mr. Bennet visits us often, especially when he is not expected. To invite him — and your mother — is no hardship. Do not think it anything beyond your due."

Nevertheless, Elizabeth was reiterating her thanks when Mrs. Taylor and Cook were announced. Having no reason to sit in on the meeting now that his interests had been expressed, Darcy took his leave. Elizabeth invited the women to sit, offered tea and toast and prepared herself to learn what she could about the household.

* * *

It was Elizabeth's usual practice to have breakfast with the children in the drawing room. After concluding her meetings with Mrs. Taylor and Cook, Perry assisted Elizabeth in locating the drawing room. It was the first time she had seen anything of the house beyond her own apartment. She was pleased to see the restrained elegance of her bedchamber was not an anomaly. As mistress, Elizabeth understood that furnishing the house was part of her dominion, but even Darcy's resources could not finance a thorough redecoration in ten years. Some of what she saw, Elizabeth was sure, was her own doing, but the majority of it must speak to generations of tasteful Darcys. Their wealth and refinement was evident without being ostentatious.

When she settled herself in the drawing room, Elizabeth requested that Miss Weston bring the children. The trip through the house had taken a good deal of her energy. She hoped to recover what she could before four children demanded her attention and imagination.

Growing up, the Bennet household had been a noisy, rowdy place. When Elizabeth was Julia's age, her father had long since lost interest the comings and goings of his daughters and her mother had yet to accept Lydia was to be the final child. With her father in his library and her mother upstairs, the five daughters had done whatever amused them best. Jane alone had been a proper young lady. Lydia had been loud and attention-seeking; Kitty gave it to her. Mary had been quiet and attention-seeking, with much less success. Elizabeth herself had been out of doors as early as possible, usually trampling down the path to Lucas Lodge. Charlotte Lucas was seven years her senior, out in society and the most fascinating person Elizabeth had ever seen. Miss Lucas spent her mornings helping in the kitchen and her evenings attending balls and parties. All of it was forbidden to nine-year-old Elizabeth, who held tales of scrubbing and dancing in the same sort of romantic reverence.

Children in the Darcy household did not suffer for lack of supervision. Their entrance was announced by a footman. They walked quietly to stand before Elizabeth, where the girls curtsied and the boys bowed. Even Fitzwilliam was silent until invited to speak. No one made any move towards the food until given permission. Elizabeth found the procession rather eerie.

The restrained atmosphere continued until everyone was seated with a plate full of toast and cakes and a cup of tea or chocolate before them. The girls, older and practicing their hostess skills, assisted the boys. When everyone had made their selections, conversation began at once from every corner. Eliza and Julia whispered and giggled. Fitzwilliam engaged Elizabeth in listening to stories about his pony. Thomas offered a syllable or two when he was in the least danger of being heard.

Eliza lost interest in the food before anyone else had finished eating and began pacing around the room. Elizabeth, not wanting to admit her daughter's walking in circles was making her somewhat dizzy, beckoned Eliza to her side. Searching for something to say once she had Eliza's attention, Elizabeth said, "You left so much food on your plate. Eat a bit more."

She shrugged. "I am finished."

"Miss Weston has a lot to teach you today," Elizabeth said. "How can you concentrate on your studies if you are hungry?"

"I ate an entire roll, almost." Eliza replied. "And I had a cup of chocolate."

Fitzwilliam observed, "That is a lot."

Pleased with her brother's defense, Eliza said, "Fitzwilliam knows I shall not be hungry."

"Thomas eats more than you," Fitzwilliam added.

"Thomas is a boy," she said, vexed. "Boys have to eat more than girls."

"Mama," Fitzwilliam asked, "is that true?"

"Everybody," Elizabeth answered, "boys and girls both, have to eat enough that they can do all their work, play all their games and talk with their friends without being too hungry."

Eliza and Fitzwilliam eyed one another carefully, unsure of which argument their mother had defended. Fitzwilliam recovered first. "Mama is on my side."

"She is not!"

"And so is Thomas."

Eliza scoffed. "Thomas is on no one's side. Thomas is never on a side. Julia is on my side, because she is my friend and likes me best and you can ask her."

Fitzwilliam declared that he would do just that and immediately abandoned them to involve Julia in the argument.

Though she knew the children had been acquainted with the accident and were often reminded that their mother was ill, Elizabeth was unsure what they understood of her memory loss. The boys did not appear to grasp the concept at all, but the girls might have some understanding.

"Eliza," Elizabeth prompted, drawing her daughter's attention from her brother and cousin's conversation, "I have noticed something special about you."

She furrowed her brow. "What?"

"That you and you alone have a special short name. Fitzwilliam is called by his entire name even though it is so very long and he is so small. And Thomas and Julia are also called by their full names."

"Oh," Eliza said mildly, "that is true. Papa does not like nicknames."

"How do you account for his calling you by one?"

"When I was born," Eliza replied, "I was very small." To demonstrate, she held her hands very close to each other. "And Elizabeth is a very large and important name. There was a queen named Elizabeth, you know." Very carefully, Eliza peeked over her should at Miss Weston. The governess was reading letters as she ate her own breakfast. Assured she would not be tested on her knowledge of history after making the mistake of mentioning a past queen, Eliza continued, "I was too little for such a big name. So, Papa had to chop it up."

Fitzwilliam returned. He did not immediately cackle in triumph, which was enough for Eliza to smugly declare, "Julia was on my side!"

He muttered something about Julia not taking sides, but he had a definite air of disappointment around him.

Deciding to end the argument and still thinking about names, Elizabeth asked, "What do you think we should call the new baby?"

She had anticipated suggestions and was surprised to watch their expressions grow confused.

"Papa will name the baby," Eliza protested. "We will call him what Papa tells us to call him."

Fitzwilliam nodded and added, "You must always do what Papa says."

"Excellent advice," Elizabeth replied. She steered the conversation away from the children's august father for the remainder of the breakfast hour. An authoritative parent was better than her own negligent ones, but she still felt the children's unflinching acceptance of the word of Darcy to be rather ridiculous.

After Miss Weston ushered the children to the schoolroom for their lessons, Elizabeth was faced with the prospect of many empty hours to fill. She considered sending for Thomas to be returned to her. He was too young for learning very much. She thought perhaps she might be able to coax him into saying more if the older children were not with them.

Elizabeth was forced to give over that scheme. A wave of dizziness came over her when she stood. Reluctantly, she requested instead for someone to help her to her bedchamber. When she arrived, Perry insisted on changing Elizabeth into a nightdress and unpinning her hair. With great reluctance, Elizabeth acquiesced to such coddling. She had hoped to spend more than three hours out of bed today.

Awash in her own feelings of disappointment and frustration, Elizabeth was not of a mind to be pleasant company when her husband appeared. "I was told you had taken to your bed."

At Pemberley, such news traveled very quickly. "As you see."

Searching for some way to make himself useful, Darcy asked "Can I get you anything?"

"I thank you, no."

Gingerly, he sat at her bedside. "Is there much pain in your head?"

"A very little," Elizabeth assured him "I felt faint after sitting so long."

Evidently, confessing to a new symptom was a mistake. Anxiously, he asked "Shall I send for the apothecary?"

"I do not think that will be necessary," she replied. "It has all but left me." Though she was the patient, it seemed that it was more important that she have a good bedside manner. To distract Darcy from his worry, she said, "I had breakfast with the children."

He was drawn easily enough into conversation. "I am certain they enjoyed that."

"They are very loyal to you, I think."

Darcy smiled. "I should hope so."

Plucking at the bedding, Elizabeth said, "I tried to engage them on what they thought a good name for the baby might be and they insisted you are to name him."

He laughed. "That is not loyalty."

Elizabeth raised her eyebrow. "They consider your authority absolute."

Frankly, he replied, "They should, and I will thank you not to teach them otherwise. But in this instance, you misunderstand the situation."

"I do?"

"You named Thomas," he explained. "It is my turn to name this child, as they well know."

"I see." Again, her conception of Darcy was overthrown. Instead of the imperious man imposing his rule, he and his wife took turns. "Tell me," she said, "if you select a name that is very dreadful — Richard, perhaps — may I reject your choice?"

"You may not," he said, "but take heart in that I reserve dreadful names for my dogs and thought to name a child after one of our relations."

Elizabeth closed her eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "It is very cruel of you to tease me while I am ill."

"If I were ill," he posited, "I would heal quicker if you teased me."

Sagely, Elizabeth concluded, "That is because I am better at it than you are."

Darcy made no attempt at defending himself. "Indeed. I need the practice and cannot wait for you to be at your best."

"Very cruel. A man should take better care of his wife than that."

Gently, Darcy placed his palm upon his child growing within her. He wanted to feel the baby move, she knew, but that did nothing to dull the sensation of a man touching her. "Anything you wish for shall be done immediately, of course," he murmured.

The rhythmic brush of his thumb stroking her belly was maddening. What Elizabeth wanted more than anything else was for Darcy to move away from her. "We cannot always get along so well," she said, rather desperately.

He sounded all too amused when he asked, "Do you wish for an argument?"

"Yes," she replied, "that will do very well, I think."

"Pray what do you wish to argue about?"

Elizabeth cast her eyes around the room, searching for a subject. She had not yet been successful at removing his hand from her person. She knew his weakest spots. If she wished to offend and anger him, Elizabeth thought that could be done easily enough. However, something that would create a bit of distance without repercussions, she could not name. "Unfair, sir," she tried, "you said anything I wished for would be done. If I wish for an argument, it is up to you to supply its subject."

"Very well," he said thoughtfully. Darcy leaned back in his chair. In doing so, he broke physical contact with her. Elizabeth breathed deeply, attempting to master herself. Having achieved her own goal, whatever topic he introduced she was prepared to dismiss. But, he said, "We have often debated about Fitzwilliam."

This topic was unexpected and far too interesting for Elizabeth to reject. "What could we possibly argue about on that score?"

"I wish to send him away to school," Darcy explained. "You do not."

Though her guess of his age was only a guess, Elizabeth could still say with certainty, "He is much too young."

"We have several years to reach an accord," he answered.

Having no brothers or acquaintances that had been sent to a boys' boarding school, Elizabeth's knowledge of them was limited to novels and conjecture. If Darcy wished his son to attend boarding school, she could assume it was for the usual reasons. "A harsh environment and cruel schoolmasters are not necessary to prepare him for adulthood."

"Not necessary," Darcy agreed easily enough, "but I rather think it will better prepare him."

"He will inherit Pemberley," Elizabeth said. "Surely the place best suited to prepare him for being its master is Pemberley itself."

"That was the opinion of my own parents," Darcy conceded. "Excellent parents though they were, I do not, upon reflection, find myself agreeing with every choice they made."

"You did not go away to school yourself."

He corrected her, "I spent a year at Cambridge. The rest of my education was, you are correct, done at home."

"Yet you find the idea of your own son being beaten and exposed to disease preferable. Sons, I should say, for if we send Fitzwilliam to school, we must send Thomas as well."

"Illness is not an argument against school. Illness can happen anywhere. The children are no more protected inside these walls than beyond them."

Though Elizabeth did not actually agree with that, she was also not prepared to make a strong argument against it, being that her own accident had happened within the house.

Darcy continued. "Our properties are vast," he said. "Aside from the local clergy, we are a considerable distance from any family worth associating with. Children growing up at Pemberley know nothing beyond their own family. Such a confined existence will do very little to prepare Fitzwilliam or Thomas to be men of society. They need to see that there are other people in the world worthy of their respect. They must learn to speak and work with them."

"I do not believe you will find a boy less in need of that lesson than Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth replied.

"He is eager to share his ideas, that is true," Darcy said, "We cannot accuse him of reserve. I believe that will only help him be successful at school. It would be a cruelty to send Eliza away; she could not thrive. I would not send Julia anywhere Eliza cannot follow. However, Fitzwilliam would do very well away from home. With luck and his brother's example, Thomas should as well."

"I begin to understand the longevity of this argument," Elizabeth said.

"Do not let it trouble you," Darcy replied. "As I said, we have years to reach an agreement. There are many other considerations and potential compromises that we have not discussed today. I hope that will suffice for an argument."

"For now," Elizabeth replied lightly, "and only because I am tired."

"I shall leave you to your rest."


	5. Chapter 5

**Bruises**  
Chapter Five

* * *

Despite Elizabeth's refusal to call the apothecary after she almost swooned, he appeared the following morning. Though without any remedies for memory loss, he did bear some good news. Provided Elizabeth exercised caution, she was permitted to begin slowly adding more activities to her schedule. Any sort of mental exertion was to be limited, but she was allowed the freedom to take on offices requiring concentration for one hour per day.

Elizabeth quickly determined that the best way to familiarize herself with what had taken place these ten years was to read the letters of her loved ones. She enlisted Perry's help in locating her correspondence almost before the apothecary had left. The desk in her private sitting room was a treasure trove of letters. Neatly bundled according to sender and date, the drawers and shelves were stocked with information.

A thin collection, scarcely over a dozen letters, held a place of prominence. When Elizabeth sat at her desk, the bundle, tied by a cheery pink ribbon, was almost at eye level. An eye miniature was its only neighbor. Greedy, Elizabeth seized the packet.

The letters were addressed to _Elizabeth Darcy_ in an unfamiliar, masculine hand. After sliding the top letter out from beneath the ribbon, Elizabeth unfolded it and glanced at the signature. Her suspicion that its author was Mr. Darcy confirmed, her eyes traveled to the top of the page. The letter was dated July, 1820 and greeted _My dearest Elizabeth_. Mr. Darcy went on to use language so intimate and describe his misery at their separation so thoroughly that Elizabeth felt herself intruding upon his privacy. This was not a letter filled with news to be shared among the household. This was a man writing his lover. Unable to reconcile herself as the intended recipient, Elizabeth quickly folded the letter. She tied it and its follows together again, and returned the bundle to its place of honor.

Elizabeth set to examine other collections of letters. Substantially more letters were addressed in familiar handwriting. She found bundles labeled in Jane's delicate script, in her mother's hurried scrawl, in her father's lazy hand. There were missives from her other sisters and friends from Meryton, as well. Elizabeth could also find evidence of friendships she had made more recently — collections of letters addressed to her in unknown hands.

"I must owe letters," Elizabeth realized. She had never been in the habit of writing down to whom she owed a debt. She had always trusted in her own promptness in writing, organizational skills and memory to keep track of who she owed a letter to, and who owed her one. "Perry," Elizabeth prompted, hoping her lady's maid was as diligent about her mistress's writing as she was about so many other things, "by chance do you know who I owe letters to?"

"You had intentions of writing Lady Grey, ma'am," Perry replied. "I cannot recall your mentioning any others."

A new acquaintance, Elizabeth reflected ruefully. She would have to review every bundle written in a strange hand and determine who these women were. Was there an etiquette, she wondered, on informing an intimate friend with whom you exchanged news that you no longer had any knowledge of who they were?

As much as Elizabeth longed to attach names to letters and interrogate Darcy on the people owning those appellations, solving the puzzle of Lady Grey's identity was probably more concentration than the apothecary intended. Elizabeth selected a letter from Jane. She had one hour of reading and she intended to use it on the people she wanted to hear from most.

Elizabeth's eyes swam. Her head ached. Dear, thoughtful Jane crossed her lines. While the task of deciphering crossed lines was not usually one to cause Elizabeth distress, looking at checkered paper before her now made her violently ill. Elizabeth tried to fold the page, but her hands shook. Perry gently took it from her and led her to the sofa.

Concerned, Perry wanted to call for the apothecary to return, or at least Mr. Darcy, but Elizabeth refused both. She needed only to close her eyes for a bit to recover.

Elizabeth felt improvement before Perry was able to master her anxiety. Once the maid was convinced her mistress was ready to proceed, Elizabeth selected a letter from her mother. Mrs. Bennet never crossed her lines. It would be safe.

With all of her daughters married, Mrs. Bennet could happily fill her days with collecting and distributing news. The letter was disheartening. The population of Meryton had become overrun with names Elizabeth did not recognize. The friends of her youth must all be married. While some may have stayed in the neighborhood they grew up in, most would have left, following their husbands all over the kingdom and beyond. Their places in society would be taken by new young ladies. Younger daughters would come out. As their older sisters married, their own titles changed. New women moved in, wives of the young men of the neighborhood. Old matrons died. Elizabeth could not discern who was a dear friend called by a new name and who was an unknown.

Even such a small concession as reading for one hour could not be made without the direct supervision of Darcy. While Elizabeth pondered her mother's letter, he entered her private room without any invitation. With barely more than a wave of his hand, Darcy dismissed Perry. He assumed the abandoned chair at Elizabeth's desk.

Offended that he had told her maid to leave, Elizabeth pretended to be too engrossed in her mother's letter to notice Darcy's entrance. What use was having a private room if her husband, lord and master of every other room, could enter when he pleased? Why was it his place to dismiss the company Elizabeth kept for her own comfort?

As time passed, it became harder to maintain the ruse that she was unaware of his pretense. Though she did not look at him, Elizabeth grew increasingly more convinced that Darcy had done nothing since his entrance but stare at her. That, at least, would be consistent with his old behavior. He had spent the last two days doing everything in his power to overthrow Elizabeth's notions of his character. If the urge to behave in a familiar manner had come over him, it was almost a kindness.

A strange kindness, though, considering it made her deeply uncomfortable. Darcy sat at her desk, silent and watchful, within an easy reach of those intimate, private letters. Elizabeth's imagination conjured up ghastly images of him seeing the letters, reaching for them, of his somehow knowing that she had peaked at one. He would feel so exposed.

But, had he not written them for her?

Perhaps Darcy was hoping she would read them. Perhaps when he learned of Elizabeth's intention to read letters, he had rushed to her side in the hopes that his were the missives she selected. How disappointed he must be, should that be the case, and he found her reading a letter from her mother instead.

With a start, Elizabeth realized this was a trap she had fallen into before, at Netherfield. With Darcy so silent, his companions habitually conjured explanations for his actions. As she recalled, Darcy had not much liked the expectation of owning an opinion assigned to him by another party.

Elizabeth glanced over the edge of her letter.

As she had feared, Darcy was staring at her, his face unreadable.

Abashed, she smiled, small and tentative.

He nodded.

They could not spend the rest of the morning making polite gestures at each other while she pretended to read. They must have some conversation. As usual, it was up to Elizabeth to supply it. The most obvious subject to introduce was the letter in her hand. Perhaps he would feel welcomed and needed if she made some inquiry about it. Not sure how closely he followed news of her hometown, Elizabeth needed a question she knew he could answer. She settled on: "What is the name of Mary's husband?"

Darcy said, "Mr. Steele."

Elizabeth skimmed the letters looking for his name. Mr. Steele was mentioned frequently, always the recipient of praise. While her pleasure in her son was evident, Mrs. Bennet was no student of character. Mr. Steele had married one of her daughters, which to Mrs. Bennet, must be the embodiment of every virtue. What merits and vices he had remained a mystery. "What sort of man is he?"

Darcy shrugged. "I could not say."

Skeptically, Elizabeth declared, "Surely you know him!"

"Yes, we've met on many occasions, of course," Darcy agreed easily. "He works."

To dismiss a man simply because he had employment was galling to her sensibilities. Though genteel by birth, Elizabeth had always had friends and relatives that worked. "You cannot find your brother unworthy of your notice because he must work to provide for his family."

Darcy frowned at the accusation. "No," he said tersely, "I do not. However, being that he does work, he has little time to spare for the pursuits of a gentleman of leisure. He is not a sportsman. He does not read beyond what his duties require. He does not go to Town. We have nothing to say to one another beyond pleasantries and talk of the weather."

To Elizabeth, that Darcy could not speak to Mr. Steele because the man's mind was occupied by his work instead of the pursuits of the idle rich was no defense at all. "Perhaps if you invited him here, away from his work to distract him, he would find the time to do the things that interest _you_."

"As it is, he cannot leave the practice," Darcy replied. "When Uncle Phillips retires and Mr. Steele has clerks of his own, he will be able to take a trip north."

This train of conversation was accomplishing nothing but making Elizabeth frustrated. Darcy seemed completely oblivious to her intended barb. He may even find it a good idea, albeit unfeasible in the current circumstance. In an effort to salvage the conversation, Elizabeth steered the subject away from Darcy's lack of fraternal feelings. "He and Mary have one child."

"Yes," he said, "a son called William. He is about two years of age." Recitation of facts slipped from Darcy's tongue more easily. He added, "They have been wed four years."

From what Elizabeth could glean of Mr. Steele's character, she was prepared to think highly of him when they met. He was a hard worker who took his responsibilities very seriously. He had chosen Mary when she was five and twenty — very nearly a spinster — when there was sure to have been many younger and prettier girls vying for attractive prospects. Of course, the deciding factor would be how Mary felt about him.

"Does she love him?"

Apparently feeling evasiveness had served him better than honest answers, Darcy said, "That, I could not say."

As acute an observer of human behavior as he thought himself to be, Elizabeth was certain Darcy had an opinion. He had separated Jane and Mr. Bingley on the basis of his scrutiny alone. She could not credit his not forming an opinion about Mary and Mr. Steele. Elizabeth pressed him, "What do you think?"

Darcy was quiet for a long time before he answered. "I suspect Mary accepted Mr. Steele's proposal out of gratitude. Naturally, I have never breeched the subject with either of them, but from what I have observed, it appears likely."

That the daughter of a gentleman would be grateful to an attorney's clerk was an odd proposition. Even in cases when she had been born higher, a married woman's social standing came from her husband. Mary had married down, a rare choice for a woman. Now that she thought about it in those terms, it seemed to Elizabeth that strong feeling towards Mr. Steele could be the only inducement. "What cause would a gentleman's daughter have to feel grateful to a clerk?"

"He was the first man to pay her any attention," Darcy answered.

It was true Mary was the least popular of her sisters among gentlemen at Meryton, but to say that she received no attention was nonsense. "That is an exaggeration."

"Is it?" Darcy asked mildly. "I cannot recall another man favoring her."

"And how do you determine favorites?" she asked. He had failed to see the love between Jane and Mr. Bingley. Darcy had failed to see how she felt about him before deciding to propose marriage. Darcy was a terrible judge of romantic inclinations. "By dance partners?"

He gave a slight nod. "Dancing is one way, yes. There are others."

Elizabeth sniffed. "Mary never cared for such things. She was a very serious girl. If she has found a very serious man, then I am happy for her."

Darcy stretched his long legs out in front of himself and crossed them at the ankles. He folded his arms. "I wonder at your impression of your sister."

"Sir?"

"That you think Mary did not care for dancing and romance." He turned his gaze away from Elizabeth. "All young ladies do."

Armed with an indisputable fact, Elizabeth countered, "Mary never danced."

"She did not have a choice in the matter," Darcy answered, his eyes finding Elizabeth again, "if men did not ask her."

Men had the right of asking, women only of acceptance or refusals. The truth of that, Elizabeth had to concede. However, young ladies had it in their power to indicate they were receptive to the attentions of men. Mary's dress and conversation were rarely inviting and never enticing. She did not flirt or bat her eyes over a fan. Mary would comment that she did not enjoy dancing throughout the evening and was rewarded with all the satisfaction of abstinence. "She did nothing to encourage them," Elizabeth argued. "She did not dress prettily or smile and flirt."

But even with this, Darcy disagreed. "She often exhibited her accomplishments on the pianoforte. She wanted the attention. I think, her dress and her manner could be more attributed to not knowing _how_ to entice than having no wish to. What other purpose could her playing have? Some are blessed with the ability to charm others easily, but not all."

Elizabeth was skeptic at ignorance as a defense. "You forget, sir, we were a house full of sisters. We shared ribbons and lace and helped dress each other's hair. Mary always kept her distance when the rest of us were preparing for an assembly."

"I do not forget," he said. "You and Jane remain great favorites with one another. Catherine, I know, was once particularity close with Lydia. Distance has put an end to that, thankfully, but it was a calculated move on our parts. Which of these couples do you suggest Mary should have made herself a part of?"

Elizabeth could not answer that. While she wanted to say that her sister would have been very welcome in the dressing room with herself and Jane, it might not have appeared so to Mary. And if she had appeared, would the elder sisters recognize that Mary wished to prepare with them? Or would they have waited for her to say her piece and leave? Kitty and Lydia would have laughed.

Darcy's impression of Mary was a sister who was the favorite of no one, unable to make herself attractive and unwilling to ask for help. All of her serious talk and philosophical ramblings, which Elizabeth had found largely insipid and occasionally hurtful, now appeared as Mary's only means of protecting herself. By pretending she had no interest in frivolities and romantic daydreams, she could transform being unwanted into an active choice on her part. The first man that did want her, whether Mary cared for him or not, was the recipient of her gratitude.

Elizabeth's long silence was as good as a confession of guilt. "Does Mr. Steele love her?"

"I think it an arrangement of convenience for him," Darcy confessed. "He sought a way to ingratiate himself with Uncle Phillips. Marriage to the remaining niece seemed a good way to do it. His future with the business is secured by the connection."

"Oh, Mary," Elizabeth murmured, folding the letter. Gratitude and convenience were not, to Elizabeth's way of thinking, the primary ingredients for a happy marriage.

"You cannot expect everyone to base their decisions on the same factors you or I would," Darcy advised, raising himself from the chair. "Your friend, Mrs. Collins — you thought her tolerably happy in her situation, did you not?"

"Yes," Elizabeth admitted. "She received all that she had desired from that arrangement. Given the circumstances, she managed remarkably well."

"Mary, too, can manage," Darcy said. "True, it is not what you would have hoped for her. But it is better to let everyone choose for themselves the manner in which they are to be happy, is it not?"

"You are quite right," she answered.

Darcy crossed the room to stand before her. He was silent, though the rule of conversation dictated that it was his turn to say something.

"Do you wish to sit?" Elizabeth asked when the silence persisted too long.

"No," he sighed. "I have business at the mill."

Though Elizabeth recognized that this was his excuse to leave, Darcy remained fixed where he stood. His scrutiny was making her nervous. Unwilling to bow to such feelings, Elizabeth said, "If you have something more to say, you had really better say it."

"I cannot account for it," Darcy said, "I do not know what I said or did that made the beginning, but _you_ married for love. I would not have you think otherwise."

The question she dared not ask had been answered. Darcy, at least, believed that she had loved him once. She knew enough of her principles that she did not think her past self would have lied to him in something so important. With all that she had believed of him, all that he had done, the feeling that induced her to marry him must have been powerful. These past three days, Elizabeth had considered the persona of Mrs. Darcy a costume, a false identity to help her face the day. She was glad to think of Mrs. Darcy as a woman that loved her husband.

Yet, to know rationally, that she had loved him once did not transform her feelings now. He was wise; he was just. He was silent, he was serious, he was rude and dismissive. If she could at all help it, Elizabeth did not want to be in company with him.

"Thank you," Elizabeth whispered. "I had not wished to ask."

She had been unable to voice the question for fear of causing him pain. Elizabeth had maintained her silence on that score out of compassion, but such was in vain. Admitting she had wondered accomplished all the evils that asking would have done.

"Please, sit," she requested, shifting herself on the sofa so that it might accommodate him as well. Her former expressions about not wishing to cause anyone pain or hoping his would be of short duration were so ludicrous that she could not even begin. Elizabeth made her request a second time before he stiffly complied.

"I am sure you have long been wishing my absence," he said.

While Darcy was correct, Elizabeth clarified, "I would not have us leave one another like this."

"I do not want to give you any cause for distress," Darcy said. "Your health and recovery is of the utmost importance. Perhaps a talk of this nature should wait until you have more strength."

"If that is what you would prefer," Elizabeth said cautiously. Though she felt it more desirable to speak honestly and decide what, if anything, could be salvaged, Elizabeth also saw the benefits of waiting. He was liable to express himself better after given time to reflect on what had already been said. So much of the situation was still too new to her to properly judge.

"If I thought it possible to keep such a promise, I would offer to visit with you only when you expressed a wish for it." He smiled, rueful and self-deprecating. "I do not believe I could stay away."

"I am not a solitary creature," she answered, "so perhaps that is for the best." Though Elizabeth was fond of Perry, the company of only servants and the children would not do for her spirits. How quickly he rose in her estimation. Only a moment ago, she wanted nothing of him. Now, she found to see him and know what he was about preferable to its alternative — solitude in the great house.

"Perhaps," he echoed, less certain than she.

"However, when you do come," Elizabeth said, "you must speak. It does me no good at all to be stared at. Our dear apothecary, I am sure, would tell you no patient has ever been improved by having someone stare at them."

"Is that meant as a jest?" he wondered.

"Yes," Elizabeth replied, confused. "I mean to make you the object of pleasantry, in fact. I am afraid the only way out of low spirits I know is to laugh out of them."

"If that is the case," Darcy answered, "you had best continue."

"I cannot," she claimed. "It is your turn to say something. You might, for example, declare that because you pay the apothecary for his visits, he will agree that staring at a patient is the very best medicine."

Slowly, Darcy nodded. "I read something to that effect just yesterday."

"An excellent choice, sir," Elizabeth said with approval, "for I cannot demand proof. I have already used my allotment of reading for to-day. I shall be wiser to-morrow."

"Oh? Pray how will you use your time to better effect to-morrow?"

"I shall not read a word until I have seen you," Elizabeth answered, "for I know you are a great reader and you might wish to speak of books. I may need to read something at your behest."

"No," he replied, "I would not use your time."

"Then perhaps I shall sew," she parried. "Tell me, Mr. Darcy, do I make your shirts?"

"Certainly not."

She shook her head. "Such a wife. I wonder than you have not returned me to my father. Even queens sew their husbands' shirts. I do not think myself that great, I hope?"

"Great? No. You do, however, find sewing unpleasant and it is my understanding that men's shirts are particularly arduous. I am not adverse to having my things made by you, but I should not like it to be a chore you dislike."

"Very politic," Elizabeth observed. "Am I only to do the things I wish to do?"

Mr. Darcy, having only known a life of privilege and wealth, looked at her with surprise. "Yes, of course." It did not take long for him to amended this statement, for he added, "However, duty is not to be forgotten. Occupying the place in society that we do carries many demands. I would not suggest you throw them over, should you find them unpleasant. Yet, with our position being what it is, there are also things you may choose to do, or not. It is no hardship to me to pay someone to sew my shirts, just as it is no hardship to employ a housekeeper to run the house or a steward to manage the land."

It appeared in marriage, Darcy had conferred upon her the ability to have her own way. She had supposed he enjoyed having companions so that they might be at his disposal. However, he did not expect her to attend to his whims or devote her time to his comfort. She was expected to do as she willed. An estate full of unknown paths and beauty spread out around her; waiting for her to walk them. A partner in life who, though very serious himself, was not adverse to being the object of sport. She thought him looking better for the teasing. Elizabeth had not the energy to explore these things as well as she wished. She knew soon enough, she would be brought to bed, which would hinder her activities again. But the freedom in her future — she could see it clearly.

"I fear," Elizabeth said, "that in time, I shall teach your daughters to run wild."

"I have never known," Darcy replied, "either of them to be daunted by mud."

He said it with such pride.


	6. Chapter 6

**Bruises**  
Chapter Six

* * *

It soon became a struggle for Elizabeth to find ways to occupy her time. Too easily fatigued for much activity but too mentally alert to confine herself to mindless leisure, the hours between meals were difficult to fill. The children would join her for breakfast and luncheon; she had Mr. Darcy's society with dinner. By evening, the day had left her so exhausted that Elizabeth would retire after the meal. The apothecary had allotted one hour with which to read or sew. The rest of her time was spent in restless frustration.

Mindful of her duty as Elizabeth's primary nurse, Perry kept a watchful eye over her mistress. As her near constant companion, Elizabeth's maid quickly determined that a solution needed to be found to alleviate her boredom. Upper servants, such as Perry, Wigfield, Mrs. Taylor and even Miss Weston, were privy to more of the direct concerns of the primary family members. The maids and footmen had to rely on their own observations to fuel below-stairs gossip, but the others had the confidence of their master and mistress. In her need for a solution, Perry could not object to discussing the issue with the other servants of her ilk. Miss Weston, empathetic and practical girl that she was, arrived at the answer.

In addition to overseeing the children's education in reading, mathematics and history, Miss Weston was charged with ensuring that the girls would grow into accomplished young ladies. To that end, French and Italian, music and singing, and drawing were part of their lessons. The suggestion Miss Weston made to Perry was to allow Elizabeth to sit as a model for Eliza and Julia to draw. All it required of their mistress was that she sit very still, but it also allowed her to be engaged with the activities of other members of the household.

The day following the original suggestion, the party convened in the morning sitting room. Each of the artists — Miss Weston herself, Julia and Eliza - selected a vantage point from which to observe Elizabeth. Each was ready with a supply of paper and crayons. While they observed her and recorded her likeness on their paper, Elizabeth was able to take a likeness of their characters.

Miss Weston, being an adult, was the most complex. Elizabeth suspected Miss Weston was above her in birth. The governess's many accomplishments gave testimony to a much more arduous childhood than her mistress had had, likely punctuated with great expectations and more masters than any girl would have chosen for herself. Having become a spinster instead of a wife, and without independent fortune, Miss Weston had no choice but to sell her talents as a governess. An insular existence in an isolated country house was not what Miss Weston had intended for herself. She posted and received letters frequently, maintaing a network of connections beyond Pemberley. She was uniformly cheerful for the children's sake and much beloved by them in return. Her broad knowledge and quick problem-solving proved her high intelligence. That she had been with the family for three years in spite of Mr. Darcy's fastidiousness proved Miss Weston to be of an upright character and an effective teacher. That Miss Weston had remained single despite her manifold attractions served the adage that there were not so many rich gentlemen as there were women who deserved one.

Miss Weston had chosen a vantage point far from Elizabeth. From it, she could capture not only the model, but the sofa upon which she sat and the windows behind. She could also observe the girls, who had chosen to sit much closer to Elizabeth. Occasionally, Miss Weston would step away from her own drawing to oversee one of the girls closer and offer tips.

"I never learned to draw," Elizabeth confessed as she watched Miss Weston demonstrate a technique for Julia.

"I like to draw very much," Eliza replied, sketching her mother in profile.

Julia, who was struggling with her full face portrait, agreed. "I do, as well. Drawing is my favorite thing to learn." The marked preference for art did not stop her from frowning at her piece. "This picture looks very poorly." With a hopeful glance at Miss Weston, she asked, "May I have a new sheet of paper?"

"You are too harsh on yourself, Miss Wickham," the governess replied. "If you continue to work on this portrait, you will be pleased with the end result."

Eliza abandoned her own drawing to come peer at her cousin's work. "I think you are doing very well," she offered.

"Look," Julia said, "I drew Aunt's eyes all wrong."

Eliza shook her head, "No, they look very right."

"I do not know much about drawing," Elizabeth interjected, sensing that the combination of Julia's modesty and Eliza's loyalty could make this a lengthy argument, "but would it perhaps be better to use slate and chalk? You could not keep your drawings, but erasing what you were not pleased with would be much easier." At the relative skill level of young children, a reusable slate would also be much more economical than using many sheets of paper in a single session.

But at this suggestion, both of the girls looked aghast.

"We never use chalk," Julia protested. "Not even for lessons. My uncle does not allow it in the house."

Surprised, Elizabeth turned to Miss Weston. Her first instinct was to interpret such unusual wastefulness as a display of the Darcys' wealth, but such ostentatious displays was not characteristic of Mr. Darcy.

"We have found chalk dust to give Miss Darcy a cough," Miss Weston explained. "It is better to not have it about." Though her tone was mild and matter-of-fact, the extreme measure of banishing chalk from the house entirely told another story. Eliza's reaction to exposure to chalk dust must be severe.

"Oh, Eliza," Elizabeth replied, pulling the child into her arms, "please forgive your mama for being so dreadful! To make such a suggestion!" Though Elizabeth knew the children were her own, she had enjoyed their company as she would the company of another woman's children. She had not regarded them with a mother's feelings. She was curious to know more about them. She felt guilty to have them be strangers. They deserved more than a woman who scarcely knew what to do with them. She had known that since the moment she became aware of them. She tried to love them and she was as successful as anyone was when they met a child. But she had not loved them as a mother did. And to compound that crime, she had, in ignorance, made a suggestion of something that would actively harm her daughter. How the suggestion must have wounded Eliza's feelings! How the ignorance must wound the feelings of them all!

Five days ago, when Elizabeth awoke from the accident and met this girl, Eliza had clung to her, with eyes red from crying. The time had been enough to help her understand how much circumstances had changed. In the beginning of their acquaintance, she had been willing enough to explain what Elizabeth did not know. She had shared the succession of her brothers and the circumstance of her nickname without particular concern. She understood better now. More than an unusual absence of mind in a person she had always known, her mother had become a true stranger. The girl who had once clung to Elizabeth did not hug her back.

"My cough is not so very bad," Eliza said finally.

Eliza did not speak of forgiveness. Within her mother's breast bubbled useless fury at the thing within her that made her hurt her daughter. This was a little girl who innocently came into the parlor to draw pictures. Instead, she found herself under attack by a woman who did not properly love her. How she — and Fitzwilliam and Thomas and Julia — should feel that lack everyday. They must see in her eyes and hear in her voice the lack of what should be there. Every moment they spent with her should speak of love, trust and safety.

Eliza knew her mother did not love her as she should.

Eliza could not forgive her for it.

The powerful emptiness she felt at the loss of her child's faith, the desire for her happiness and security above all else, the fire of rage at the attack itself and the guilt of having been the one to make it — all of these, Elizabeth supposed to be a mother's feelings. For her daughter's peace rather than her own, for Elizabeth knew peace for herself would not be coming, she said, "Please forgive me, dearest."

"Papa said that you forgot all about us," Eliza said, resolutely looking away from Elizabeth. "Papa said it is not your fault and that you cannot help it. And that we should not be mad at you."

Quietly, Miss Weston began steering Julia away from the awkward scene. Gripping Eliza's slight shoulders tighter, Elizabeth said to the others, "Stay. Please." Miss Weston could not but follow a direct order.

Julia approached cautiously. Gently, she tugged Eliza out of her mother's embrace. Taking her hands, Julia announced, "I want to draw more. Come, let us draw." Glancing about the room, she selected the prospect out the windows. "We can draw something else. We can draw the park." Without asking for permission this time, Julia collected new sheets of paper and the crayons. Eliza obediently trailed behind and accepted the crayons and paper that were offered to her.

Abandoned on the sofa, Elizabeth turned to Miss Weston. The hushed tones of conversation bubbling up between the little girls soon carried to them across the room. She could not make out the words, but she could tell Eliza's spirits were rising. Addressing Miss Weston, Elizabeth asked, "Julia takes care of Eliza, does she not?"

"Miss Wickham is the eldest," Miss Weston replied. "She takes prodigious care of all the younger children, but Miss Darcy especially so. She wants for it more than the boys. When they are grown, I imagine Master Fitzwilliam will pay her back in kind. Her own brother will not be able to guard her interests when she enters society. Even if he were not far off in the Navy, Miss Wickham is being prepared for society her true siblings could never enter. Master Fitzwilliam and Master Thomas must be the ones to protect her."

"You agree with Mr. Darcy's assessment, Miss Weston?" Elizabeth asked. "You think we are in no danger of Julia's parents requesting her return?"

"I have not met Mr. or Mrs. Wickham myself, ma'am," Miss Weston said cautiously, "but I cannot suppose anyone to have cause to wish their child away from Pemberley."

"Some," Elizabeth replied, thinking of Darcy's desire to send the boys away to school, "would consider the house's relative isolation to be a factor against it."

Miss Weston flushed. "In every situation, there is good and evil. It is true there is little society in this part of the country, but for children so young, that cannot be a misfortune."

Though Darcy disagreed, Elizabeth was inclined to side with Miss Weston. The children did not lack for playmates, being as close in age as they were. Jane's children, she was sure, would often be in company with her own. When they were older, they would enjoy the more varied society of London, but for now this place and its endless resources were sufficient.

Miss Weston allowed the girls to draw for another quarter of an hour before calling them away for music lessons. Their reactions were much the same as when Mr. Darcy had expected them to play that first day. The instructions to pack up their drawing things and repair to the music room was met with protest and grumbling.

Eliza, recovered from her earlier offense, had shed her reserve well enough to complain. "Papa only makes us play because Lady Grey plays so well," was her specific argument against music lessons.

"I should like playing if I played as well as her," Julia replied, "but I do not."

Indulgently, Miss Weston smiled. "That is why we practice."

Eying Elizabeth carefully, Eliza said, "Mama does not practice."

Seizing the opportunity to create an easy rapport between herself and her daughter, Elizabeth quickly assented. "And I do not play so well as Lady Grey, I am sure."

With great reluctance, Eliza owned that her mother did not. She feared Elizabeth would take offense to the slight. Realizing that she had put her daughter in a difficult position, wherein she had to belittle her playing or disagree with a parent in front of Miss Weston — and most likely be telling a fib when doing so — Elizabeth was eager to put her at ease.

"Now, who would you wish to play like," she asked kindly, "Mama, who plays so ill, or Lady Grey, who plays so well?"

Julia reiterated her prior preference to play like Lady Grey, but Eliza replied, "I do not wish to play at all."

The claims of duty held little sway over them. Mr. Darcy required that they play and though they did so, they had not learned to do things against their inclination with grace. "Your father thinks you play well," Elizabeth offered. "You would not wish to disappoint him, would you?"

"No, ma'am," Eliza replied.

"Oh, dear," Elizabeth murmured, "what is there to be done?"

Eliza sighed. "Practice."

Elizabeth smiled, "You had best go and do so."

Their drawing things collected, the girls left the parlor. Before Miss Weston could follow, Elizabeth sought her attention. The mysterious Lady Grey had been mentioned before, by Perry. The girls' familiarity with the woman made Elizabeth all the more curious as to her identity. "This Lady Grey," she said, "how are the girls acquainted with her?"

"Lady Grey is Mr. Darcy's sister, ma'am," Miss Weston replied. "I understand she lived at Pemberley until her marriage. She and her husband, Sir Robert, visit frequently. They are great favorites with the children."

Elizabeth nodded. She could remember hearing a great deal of the Miss Georgiana Darcy that was. Though Mr. Darcy had married beneath himself, his sister had married a man with a title. Judging from the girls' familiarity with her playing, the marriage had not dissuaded the former Miss Darcy from continuing in her music. In fact, Elizabeth could draw the same conclusion about her own habits. She had been identified as both not practicing with any frequency and still playing poorly.

The posed question answered, Miss Weston departed to oversee the girls at their practice. Though it had not been easy, Elizabeth was overall pleased by her sitting in on the drawing lesson. It did her good to be part of the house and to learn more about how the children spent their time. They spent far more of their day with servants than with their parents. It was good to know they were in capable hands.

* * *

The children were served their dinner at four o'clock, so Elizabeth waited until then before seeking out the music room for herself. She did not want to disturb the girls while they practiced. Though she had never enjoyed playing as well as reading or walking, Elizabeth had liked the exercise. She was not a devotee of music. Unless prodded to play before company, she had played when she wished. Looking for ways to fill her time as she was, the addition of music to her routine sounded wonderful.

Elizabeth required the help of a house maid to find the music room. It was a bright, airy room whose principle piece of furniture was the great pianoforte. It was a beautiful specimen. Even to the eye of an amateur player like herself, it appeared to be an exquisite instrument. Unlike Longbourn, or even Rosings, where instruments were forced to fit where the right combination of space and acoustics could be found, the enjoyment of music was the clear purpose of the room. What other furniture occupied the room was arranged to appreciate the musician and their efforts. The walls were dotted with cabinets to store sheet music in.

She sat down at the bench and lifted the cover to reveal the keys. There was music left on the stand, but Elizabeth closed the book and set it aside. Hopefully soon, she would be able to read music again, but for now it seemed very likely to induce a powerful headache. Having never possessed the desire to know music by heart, Elizabeth's choice of what to play was limited.

Carefully laying her fingers on the keys, Elizabeth began her scales.

Having deviated from the previous day's schedule without warning, she was hardly surprised when Mr. Darcy entered to check on her activities. As soon as the house maid had directed Elizabeth here, she had probably gone straight to the master.

"Your daughters tell me I still play."

"Yes, that is so," he replied. After a short pause, Darcy added, "They are yours as well, madam."

The strength of her feelings towards the children warred with her ignorance of their lives and needs. To claim them as her own felt like a lie. "I was surprised," she confessed, returning to the subject of the instrument. "I have long thought that a woman celebrated her marriage by abandoning those pursuits that gentlemen fancy."

"In many cases," Darcy said, "I imagine that is so. I have known of ladies who professed to enjoy the instrument, yet ceased to play upon marriage."

Elizabeth's fingers flowed easily from one scale to the next. "To what can you attribute that?"

"The particular lady's circumstance," he replied after a moment of thought. "Some women profess an enjoyment of music that they do not feel. To such a woman, to give over playing is no hardship. Others find themselves so well occupied as the mistress of a household that they can no longer find the time to practice."

The sounds coming from the instrument were rich and rewarding. "I suppose we have already established I am not so well occupied that I can no longer find the time to do as I will."

"I would not have you so," Darcy said, settling himself in a chair near to her. There was another chair closer, to accommodate someone turning pages for the pianist but as she had no pages to turn, Darcy did not sit there. Given past conversations between the two, Elizabeth supposed he may also be cognizant of her desire for space. "The blessing of your upbringing was in your freedom to do as you chose, to broaden your mind by what means you wished and by what means suited you better than any other. You could never profess an enjoyment for music that you did not feel. You played as you wished to play."

At this, Elizabeth laughed. "I played very ill, you mean. Allow me to assure you, sir, to play ill was never my intention."

"Your playing was charming," he protested. "I have enjoyed your performance as I have none other." Here, he paused to collect himself. Not for the first time, Elizabeth both wondered what more he had to say, while also feeling thankful that he elected to hold his tongue. "But, you twist my words. You practiced as often or as little as you wished to practice. You gained in skill when you wished to gain, and your playing suffered when you chose to neglect it. You played for your own enjoyment of it, rather than the enjoyment of an audience. The lack of artifice is what makes your playing so attractive."

"You have thought this over very well," Elizabeth said. Having completed the twelve major scales, she moved to a simple piece she did have memorized — the third movement of Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 11. "I shall not accuse you of bias."

He moved to the closer chair. "I would be perfectly content should you accuse me of bias in your favor."

"So you admit my playing is pleasurable only to the ears of a lover."

"I have done no such thing," he declared, smiling. But, soon enough he sobered and added: "However, given our history and what you can recall of me, I would rather have you think me biased in your favor than biased against you."

"That sounds like a confession," Elizabeth replied, her tone light, "but of what, I shall not conjecture. My imaginings would do you no credit, and they always end up proven wrong."

He frowned. "_You_ cannot think me a man without fault."

This statement was unsettling. She could not determine if he was referring to her frequent misapprehensions of his character or something larger. "No, you have faults enough," Elizabeth conceded. She refrained from making a list. "But I shall assign to you only the faults I have witnessed, rather than taking it upon myself it invent them. For example, as much as I would think you a tyrant, it appears unlikely that is the case."

"A tyrant?" Darcy repeated. "Who do I rule?"

"Your children," Elizabeth answered.

For the second time in a very small period, he reminded her, "They are yours, as well."

"Yes, but for now, I think of them of yours alone," she argued. "I am, at best, a long-estranged friend of the family."

"Preposterous."

"As a metaphor, I think it works rather well," Elizabeth said thoughtfully. "The last time we were in company was ten years ago. Much has changed since that time. You are, in many respects, not the man I was once acquainted with. You have married and had children. Such experiences change a person, I should think. As an old friend who has not seen you since prior to your marriage, I will have to get to know you and your children."

"Elizabeth, I do not know what you hope to accomplish by diminishing your place in our family."

She frowned. "It is not that I do so with a goal, sir. More that I do not possess a mother's feeling or a wife's feeling. I cannot lay claim to a status that I am not fit for."

"And who is to decide what is 'fit?'" he demanded.

"In ignorance, I have wounded Eliza's feelings." Elizabeth bit her lip. The younger boys were likely safe from her. Thomas was too young to understand; Fitzwilliam was so enamored with the sound of his own voice that should she betray herself, he would probably continue to simply correct her. Eliza, she knew she had wounded. Julia could not be far behind. Even to Mr. Darcy himself, she had caused pain. Her loss of memory had taken something from him as well, and the nature of the beast was such that Elizabeth did not know exactly what.

With evident disapproval, Darcy said, "You base your claims on that?"

"Would you have me not care that I have hurt her?" Elizabeth bit.

He exhaled slowly. "Certainly not. I am very pleased that you wish to safeguard their feelings. In a time such as this, the children must understand that they are loved and safe regardless of how adults comport themselves. Stability in their routine, clear expectations for their behavior and affection are paramount. You have hurt her feelings, but as you say, it was in ignorance, not malice. I am certain you immediately did all that you could to make her feel at ease."

"Yes, of course," Elizabeth interjected. She had not been successful. That office had been Julia's. She wondered about the friendship of the girls, if it resembled the past relationship of their fathers'. Mr. Wickham, whatever his faults, was so easy in company, so well suited to make himself liked. He probably could not have avoided coming to the aid of the young Mr. Darcy, if he was as reticent then as he was now. Had young Mr. Wickham taken Mr. Darcy by the hand and deftly guided him away from that which upset him?

"As you cannot tell me," Darcy continued, "that your relationship with your own mother is easy, I should not think you consider complete submission to a child's feelings a requirement for motherhood. As you are her mother, you are owed Eliza's respect and deference. So you have upset her. It was not the first time, and let us hope it is not the last."

Banishing the musings of Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham from her mind, Elizabeth return to the subject at hand. "You know I cannot love them as well I as should," she protested. With that pronouncement, she ceased playing. The baby still growing inside of her, she would meet on the day of his birth. Her hands sought him, to reassure herself that he was still there. She had not wanted him. Suppose, in her selfishness and inadequacy as a mother, her body rejected him? Darcy had never hid his fears she would miscarry. His conversation with the apothecary — the warning that bad news may be forthcoming — had been the first thing she heard upon waking. How long had it taken her to realize _she_ was Mrs. Darcy?

Five days ago felt like a lifetime.

"That will come with time," Darcy argued.

He was still talking about her relationship with the older children. "I cannot trust in that so easily," Elizabeth confessed. Beneath her hands, the baby was active.

"History supports me," Darcy replied. "As I have said, Julia entered our house when she was four years old. We did not love her as our own immediately upon her crossing the threshold of Pemberley. We took her to relieve some financial burden from Mr. and Mrs. Wickham. There was nothing in our hearts but a vain hope their children would not live in poverty if the family her parents needed to support became smaller. With time and familiarity, she became ours. Mother them, and you will feel yourself their mother."

It was reasonable advice, she conceded. In the absence of anything else to be done, to build a relationship was the only course of action. To withdraw from the family would not protect their feelings. And yet, the title of mother was not one she had earned yet. She could not claim them as her own with only the shaky foundation she had.

"Your daughters tell me," Elizabeth said, persisting in her own terminology for the present, "that they do not enjoy playing the piano, but that you force them to do so." The subject of her own feelings appeared well canvased. She did not wish to share more with Mr. Darcy. If she accepted the wisdom of acting as their mother to feel herself their mother, then the next step must be to act as his wife in order to feel herself his wife. That, she found less palatable. She had claimed friendship with him. He would have to be satisfied with that. "This seems at odds with your earlier approval of my playing, considering how you praised me for only practicing when I wished."

"Practicing is repetitive," Darcy said, "and their hands are small, which limits what can be played. They do not enjoy it. When they are older, they may appreciate the instrument more, or they may continue to dislike it. I would wish for a sturdy foundation of skill many areas, so that when they choose to do what they enjoy, it is an informed choice. I would not have them try something but once and forsake it forever should the experience not be what they hoped for."

Having long ceased to play, Elizabeth closed the instrument. "There, you see, infinitely more reasonable than parental tyranny."

"No," he said, reaching over to raise the cover, "continue. Consider it husbandly tyranny if you must, but I insist upon hearing you play."

If he was going to challenge her, she could hardly refuse. Elizabeth did not remember exactly where she left off in the sonata, but the third movement was short enough that she did not mind starting from the beginning.


	7. Chapter 7

**Bruises**  
Chapter Seven

* * *

Though Thomas held Elizabeth's arm, his attention was on his older brother. The younger, having been stymied by the geography puzzle, watched in slack-jawed awe as Fitzwilliam deftly completed it.

"Very good, Fitzwilliam!" Elizabeth cheered.

Fitzwilliam tore the puzzle apart. "It is an easy puzzle for me," he boasted. "I have done this puzzle so many times! I was showing Thomas." When completed, the puzzle depicted the European continent. Chipped boarders and faded labels gave testimony to its popularity in the nursery.

Undaunted, Elizabeth replied, "I shall be impressed regardless. You completed it very fast. I do not think I could complete it so well."

Abandoning Elizabeth's arm, Thomas crouched at the pile of wooden pieces left on the nursery floor. He selected two. As valiantly as he tried, the two pieces did not fit together. Fitzwilliam picked through the pile, looking for pieces that would connect to his brother's.

Fitzwilliam took Thomas's pieces to again model how the puzzle must be built. Amused, Elizabeth tried to discern if Fitzwilliam was trying to help Thomas or trying to do everything himself. He said he was showing his younger brother how it was done, but he allowed very few opportunities for Thomas to apply the lesson.

When the final piece was all that was missing, Elizabeth halted Fitzwilliam. "Let Thomas put in that piece."

Fitzwilliam was on the brink of seizing his brother's wrist and guiding the piece to its rightful place when Elizabeth's supervision was interrupted by the arrival of a housemaid.

"Mrs. Darcy," the maid said, curtseying quickly, "Outriders are come. Mr. Bennet's carriage will be at the drive in an half-hour."

"Thank you," Elizabeth said. "I shall be down shortly."

Darcy had told her to expect her parents' arrival on the fifth or sixth day. The journey between Longbourn and Pemberley could be done in two days when the travelers' only concern was speed. Even the most well-constructed carriage promised an uncomfortable trip. At their ages, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet could not withstand a punishing pace. Their progress would be much slower. Darcy's estimate was three or four days. Elizabeth had seen to it that their rooms were prepared by the fifth day. She had felt well enough to walk as far as the guest wing only once. Her father's room, she was assured, was his usual apartment. He visited frequently. His rooms were as well lived in as any of the family's. Though Mr. Bennet had discovered an interest in travel once his daughters had scattered themselves in the North, Mrs. Bennet preferred her own neighborhood to any other. She rarely accompanied Mr. Bennet on his many trips to Pemberley. Though her accommodations were not so well lived in as her husband's, they were no less grand.

"Shall you come meet Grandfather and Grandmother Bennet with me?" Elizabeth asked the boys. They clamored that they would. Fitzwilliam swept the puzzle pieces into a wooden box and returned it the shelf. As round as she was, it took Elizabeth nearly that long to raise herself from the floor.

Fitzwilliam lead the way to the sitting room where the family received guests. Elizabeth and Thomas followed. The six-year-old marched with certainty through the halls of his home. Even a family as large as their own could not use all of the space available in Pemberley House. Still, Fitzwilliam knew without question the way to get from one often used room to another. Elizabeth could almost laugh at her own foolishness. She, a grown woman, knew less of the house than a little boy. Fitzwilliam was every inch the heir.

Mr. Darcy and the girls greeted them upon arrival. The children shuffled about one another, arranging themselves to receive guests by rank. The expectation of formality was deeply ingrained already. Though they were greeting relatives — and ill-behaved ones at that! — the children arranged themselves without a word spoken to direct them.

Awash with anticipation, Elizabeth awaited the announcement of her parents' arrival with a pleasurable anxiety. They were certain to be much changed by ten years. Still, they were familiar and beloved and much missed. Elizabeth was no stranger to long visits with friends and relatives. She had happily gone weeks without seeing her mother and father before. But, those visits were always with people she knew and trusted. To be shut up in a strange house with a man whose character could not be understood was an experience unlike any other.

The scant minutes between her arrival and the announcement of her parents' entrance felt to Elizabeth as long as another full day. But, finally, they appeared. Though she warned herself they would be older than she pictured them, Elizabeth had not been able to fully prepare herself for how much they had aged. Her father's hair was pure white. Like herself, he was heavier than she remembered him being. Mrs. Bennet, who had long abandoned any notion of her husband's reliability, nonetheless leaned on his arm. She was thinner and walked stiffly. However worse a two day trip would have taxed her, four days in a carriage had done Mrs. Bennet no favors.

Mr. Darcy bowed immediately. His sons followed suit; his little girls curtseyed. Preliminary politeness accounted for, he hurried to Mrs. Bennet's side. The trip had been difficult for her, but it had been equally so for her husband. Mr. Bennet relinquished the support of Mrs. Bennet to his younger and more fit host. Darcy guided Mrs. Bennet to a sofa, where she gracelessly collapsed. Darcy sat by her side. The children, eager for their grandmother's attention, followed their father's example. They happily settled themselves around Mrs. Bennet.

Mr. Bennet directed his attention to his daughter. "Lizzy!"

Elizabeth happily accepted her father's hug, a kiss upon her forehead and all of his questions about her well-being. They found a seat on another sofa. Mr. Bennet gripped Elizabeth's hands almost as desperately as she grasped his. In their eagerness to speak to one another, Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth spoke over each other. He asked questions. She answered. He wanted clarification on every line of Mr. Darcy's express. To Elizabeth's pleasure, she could give mostly favorable updates to the news her parents had initially received. Her headaches were less frequent. Though still easily fatigued, she had more energy with each day. The baby she carried was very active, which lead to the midwife being confidant it suffered no lasting harm.

The only bad news Elizabeth had to deliver was that she could not remember anything since her twentieth year. Besides ignorance, Elizabeth confessed there was very little the matter with her. Such a wealth of ignorance, she admitted privately, was a serious condition. However, she was quick to console her father. He had spent four days in a carriage, afraid for her and unable to receive news.

"I have been very comfortable at Pemberley," she added. "Mr. Darcy has been very kind." Elizabeth could hardly believe that she was saying such a thing with sincerity, but it was true.

Though seated with Mrs. Bennet, Darcy had been attending to his wife's conversation. Mr. Bennet was able to nod to him and say, "Thank you, son."

"I wish only there was more that could be done," Darcy replied with a small shrug. "I confess I have done little beyond keeping Elizabeth company. The apothecary claims there is little we can do. Most of her activities have been restricted. Rest is the only recommendation."

Meanwhile, the children enjoyed the attention of Mrs. Bennet. As a mother, she had been shallow, finding only the beauty of her eldest daughter and the flirtatiousness of her youngest worth praising. She had expected her daughters to make great matches and while she worked to that end, her methods had been short-sighted and embarrassing. Elizabeth had long been ashamed of her mother's conduct. It was a difficult thing to be raised by Mrs. Bennet, and to hear her foolish pronouncements every day. Her grandchildren saw her rarely. They found praise for their persons and expectations for their greatness very welcome.

Julia was immediately declared to be the loveliest little girl Mrs. Bennet had ever seen. She had inherited the beauty and charm of both of her parents. Nothing at all could displease Mrs. Bennet in the favored daughter of her favorite daughter, except "It is a shame how little you see your mother and father, dear. But I dare say having so many pretty gowns makes up for it!"

In Fitzwilliam, Mrs. Bennet could find no lack at all. Being male, the boy had secured the future of Pemberley for another generation. He was, by virtue of having the good sense to be a boy, the smartest, handsomest lad there ever was. His was a very grand inheritance and so nothing could be wanting.

Mrs. Bennet snuggled Eliza's shawl tighter around her shoulders and inquired if she was warm enough. She wanted only for a bit of color in her cheeks to be as pretty as her cousin. Thomas had yet to feel the lot of a younger son and was perfectly happy with hugs from his grandmother.

Loathe as at the party was to separate, it was agreed that the travelers needed some time to rest. Their journey had been exhausting. Anxious as they were for Elizabeth's well-being, they had not been able to relax in several days. Having only toured that part of the house once, Elizabeth doubted she would be able to lead her parents to their rooms to refresh themselves.

Pain was evident in Mr. Bennet's eyes as he dismissed Elizabeth's concerns. "No need, Lizzy. If you've put me up in my usual room, I know the way." She assured him that she had, and he patted her hand. "I will see you at dinner, dear," Mr. Bennet said. After kissing her again on her forehead, Mr. Bennet departed to his room.

Not as familiar with Pemberley as her husband, Mrs. Bennet did need a maid to show her the way to her room. Anticipating that she would be able to enjoy the splendors of the house after a short rest, Mrs. Bennet insisted that she needed only an hour before she could join the rest of the family.

After commissioning a maid to show Mrs. Bennet the way to her room, it occurred to Elizabeth that she did not know where Mr. Darcy's room was. She was too embarrassed to ask, and had no real need for the information besides. It suddenly struck her as a very strange thing to not know. He had involved himself in all of her concerns. She had not placed any similar interest in his, or put herself to any effort to learn more about him. She was interested enough in sketching his character, but that was for her own amusement. It did him no good.

Knowing she would have to devise some entertainment for Mrs. Bennet once she was rested, Elizabeth caught Mr. Darcy's eye. Once she had his attention, she withdrew it and turned to the children. Darcy had recommended that she involve herself in the their activities. Intending to prove that she would take this advice, she asked, "How should we spend the rest of our morning with Grandmother Bennet?"

The last time Elizabeth had looked to any of the children for suggestions, she had been surprised to have them defer to their father. This time, expecting deference, she was surprised to find the girls very opinionated on the subject.

"We want to show Grandmama our drawings!" Eliza announced. Julia concurred immediately.

"Shall we bring some of your drawings into the sitting room?" Elizabeth suggested. As fond of drawing as the girls were, their enthusiasm to show their pictures to Mrs. Bennet was only natural.

"We keep artwork in the gallery," Darcy interjected.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at Mr. Darcy. Keeping the amateur efforts of the girls in the gallery was very sentimental of him. She would not have expected it. Meeting her gaze, he added, "I think a tour of the gallery an excellent idea." And so to the gallery, they would go.

When Mrs. Bennet rejoined the party, she was applied to for approval of the gallery scheme. Her consent was quickly granted. Eliza and Julia cheerfully assumed the lead. Like Fitzwilliam, the house held no mysteries to them. In fact, they often stopped to explain a knickknack or interesting bit of family lore as they showed the way to the gallery. Bring up the rear was Mr. Darcy and his sons.

In the middle, Mrs. Bennet chose to walk beside her daughter. This attention pleased Elizabeth very well. She had always been her mother's least favorite child. While being Mr. Bennet's most beloved daughter was some consolation, Elizabeth had always felt the lack of her mother's esteem. Her mother had favored the daughters that took after herself: brazen Lydia and beautiful Jane. Elizabeth, clever like her father and athletic like her uncle, had qualities Mrs. Bennet could neither understand nor value. That her mother was pleased with her marriage, Elizabeth could not doubt. She appeared to have earned the favor of Mrs. Bennet, and by that, she was greatly pleased.

"Lizzy, dear," Mrs. Bennet said, leaning close to her daughter, "give me a bit of money."

This disappointing application took Elizabeth by surprise. "I am sorry, ma'am," she replied in a hushed voice, "but I am not sure I am understanding you correctly."

Mrs. Bennet huffed and confessed, "Your father was quite out of sorts to receive Mr. Darcy's express. He insisted upon our traveling to Pemberley immediately. And here you are, fine as can be — my poor nerves, I cannot imagine what Mr. Darcy was thinking writing such nonsense. Why, we thought you nearly dead and all you have is a bit of a headache. Your father would spare no time in coming up to Derbyshire and he did not give me time to buy the children presents. How do the poor dears feel, their grandmama coming all this way to see them and no presents? But, if you give me a bit of money and call for one of the carriages — a very small one will do, but at my time of life, a woman needs a closed carriage with good springs, so send for the smallest of that sort you have — I can go into the village and buy the children presents."

Elizabeth could hardly think of any children less in need of presents than the Darcys. They were too well-mannered to bring their toys into the sitting room, but their nursery was stocked with playthings. They had fine clothes and all the supplies to pursue their interests they could need. The girls had their accomplishments to work towards and Fitzwilliam had his pony. When these things failed to keep their attention, Miss Weston was a source of amusements as well as knowledge.

"I thank you for your attention to them, Mama," Elizabeth replied, feeling more charitable towards her mother's initial request, now that the sentiment behind it had been expressed, "but the children do not feel themselves ill-used if you do not ply them with presents at every meeting."

"Nonsense!" Mrs. Bennet protested. "I dare say presents are all they are interested in. What other use does a grandmama have?"

"I hope my children are no so ill-bred that they only use they have for their family is presents," Elizabeth replied. Mr. Darcy's values, she could not vouch for. While his understanding of morality and justice was beyond reproof, his conduct did not always live up to his ideals. What had been instilled in him, and what he would choose to instill in his children, she could not say. Her own principles were such that she could not condone greed in the children. That their situation was so good, with respect to financial concerns, made it all the more disagreeable.

"Breeding," Mrs. Bennet said dismissively, "What use do children have for good breeding? A bit of fun and some nice things are all children want!"

"The girls want you to admire their artwork, Mama," Elizabeth replied. "Surely that shows you their concern for you is not only to their material advantage."

Mrs. Bennet was not given the opportunity to make an answer to this. Having reached the gallery, the girls seized her hands and merrily showed her where to find their work. Mr. Darcy sent the boys to follow. He himself took Mrs. Bennet's former place at Elizabeth's side. The walk had been long enough that Elizabeth was fatigued. When Darcy offered his arm, she leaned on it more heavily than she liked.

"Your father visits often," Darcy offered. "Mrs. Bennet makes the trip but rarely. That is why they are so excited."

Though Elizabeth would have liked to view the children's artwork, Darcy was disinclined to encroach upon his children's time with their grandmother. With Elizabeth on his arm, he began walking in the other direction. They passed portrait after portrait. The likenesses of generations of Darcys hung on the wall. Because they did not stop to admire any one painting, Elizabeth could not examine them in the search for family traits. She was allowed just enough time to observe the evolution of fashion over several centuries.

Closer to the destination he had in mind, there was a splendid portrait of Darcy himself, done when he was a young man. With his hair dark and his face smooth, it bore a greater resemblance to the Mr. Darcy of her memories than the man himself did. In the present day, his curls were turning grey. Though the Darcy in the painting was smiling, his smile was not accompanied by so many wrinkles as the real fellow's. Gazing upon the portrait, Elizabeth was struck by how often Darcy smiled.

Darcy demonstrated no interest in the portrait of himself. He drew Elizabeth's attention to its neighbor: a young woman in a yellow gown, wearing an enigmatic expression.

Tearing her gaze away from the portrait of Darcy, Elizabeth turned to the painting of the woman. "She looks like she knows something I do not," Elizabeth observed. Darcy laughed. "She is very pleased by it, I dare say."

"Yes," he said fondly. "That is the very feeling I get when I look upon this portrait."

It was an excellent likeness of herself. Critically, Elizabeth could see where the portrait did not look exactly right. Her cheekbones had been altered to be more attractive and she felt her forehead was rather small. She was no stranger to having her likeness taken. Every time a traveling artist came through Meryton, Elizabeth and all her sisters had sat for miniatures. Even with its flaws, however, this half length portrait was the greatest likeness of herself she had ever seen.

"When was it done?" Elizabeth asked. She wagered it was some time ago. The Elizabeth Darcy of the painting looked closer to how she remembered Elizabeth Bennet than her reflection in a mirror.

"The summer," he answered. "1814."

Yes, Elizabeth thought. Mrs. Darcy of 1814 certainly knew many things that she did not.

Darcy peered down the hallway. Upon being satisfied that the children and their grandmother had not grown bored with another, Darcy said, "If you are willing, there is another portrait I would like to show you."

"I am perfectly willing," Elizabeth answered, "however, I should like to sit soon."

Compromise accepted, Darcy offered his arm again. Elizabeth took it, and was escorted through a several lightly furnished rooms, down a flight of stairs and finally, to another sitting room. Darcy led her to a sofa, where she gratefully sat. He pulled a cord. When the maid appeared, he asked that Mrs. Bennet be told where they had gone off to, in event they were missed. He told the maid assure her they would return to the gallery once Mrs. Darcy felt rested.

After the maid departed, Darcy began reciting the history of the room for Elizabeth's benefit. It had been his father's favorite sitting room, and consequently, the place where he displayed paintings of those he loved best. For many years, Darcy had left the room exactly as his father had arranged it. As the family grew, Mr. Darcy began adding miniatures to the collection. Though he had hated to do so, eventually, it became prudent to begin removing his father's beloved miniatures to make more space for his own.

Though Elizabeth tried to attend to this speech, most of her attention was on the half length portrait above the mantle. It was another portrait of herself, this one less adorned than the painting in the gallery. There was an infant in her arms. The painting was taken from such a vantage point as to have the sleeping baby's face as the principle subject.

"What eager parents we were," Elizabeth said, "commissioning such a portrait."

"We had a great wish to capture her likeness," Darcy confessed. "It took longer than we liked to conceive Eliza," he reminded her. "We were very anxious to have her immortalized once we knew her. We have been more patient with the other children. There are miniatures of them only. It has long been our intention to have a full length family portrait done once the youngest has the patience for such a thing."

"I notice Eliza sat for her portrait while she was asleep," Elizabeth observed.

"It ensured a better likeness," Darcy replied. "I regret the trade off meant we could not have her with her eyes open. Later, we had a miniature done when she was awake that I feel captured her expression very well. As for this one, to have her still made the process a simpler thing for the artist." As he spoke, Darcy strode about the room, collecting miniatures for her to admire: Julia, age eight; Fitzwilliam and Thomas when they were babies; Fitzwilliam again when he was five; Eliza at seven. A series of portraits showed a woman Elizabeth did not recognize as a little girl, a young lady and a married woman: his sister, Darcy explained.

"Lady Grey," Elizabeth surmised.

Surprised and pleased by Elizabeth's information, Darcy quickly said, "Yes, indeed." Then, after thinking it over, added, "You must know her by reputation, to have called her so formally."

"I have heard much about her," Elizabeth admitted. Her knowledge of Georgiana's married name had given him hope she remembered something. She disliked disappointing him, for both his sake and her own. "I am told she lived at Pemberley until her marriage." Upon Darcy's confirmation, Elizabeth added, "I believe she remains a favorite of the servants."

"Sir Robert is an excellent man," Darcy said. "My only regret in the match is that his family has been long settled in Sussex."

"The far and the near must be relative," Elizabeth reminded him.

"You would not like to be settled too close to your family," Darcy replied, "but Georgiana has not your spirit."

"The circumstance in being a Lady Grey of Sussex must be better than a Miss Darcy of Pemberley. Distance is no hindrance to a Darcy, so I would think it not so terrible for a Lady Grey." To prove this assertion, Elizabeth added, "Miss Weston tells me she visits often."

Darcy's expression told plainly that he did not believe his sister visited with as much regularly as the governess did. Humored by his petulance, Elizabeth nevertheless amended her observations: "Of course, 'often' is a relative term, as well. A servant who was not with the family when a young lady married might be satisfied that she visits often, but these visits may seem very few indeed to a devoted brother."

He added, "And to a sister, as well."

"Lady Grey and I were close," Elizabeth guessed.

"Yes," he quickly agreed. "I was very pleased to have you love each other so well."

Her only account of Lady Grey came from Mr. Wickham. It was perhaps, an account not to be trusted. "I am afraid I know very little about her," Elizabeth confessed. "The girls tell me of her skill at the pianoforte and Perry tells me I owe her a letter."

"Any account of mine will be biased, of course," Darcy said. "She has always been one of the dearest people in the world to me. I held you both in such esteem that you were determined to love one another from the start." He busied himself with returning the miniatures to their places of honor.

"I am sure she is very dear girl," Elizabeth replied, "for I cannot love someone just because I wish to. You may think you influenced my opinion however you wish, but I must think that she really earned my esteem on her own merits."

"You," he said, amending his former opinion, "no doubt, earned hers for yourself as well."

"Have I so many in your eyes?" she wondered.

"Merits?" Darcy asked. "My dearest, you are the embodiment of them all."

At this, Elizabeth laughed. "If you have a comprehensive list, sir, I should like to see it."

"Another time," said he, "for you cannot have the energy for any reading at present."

"It is true," she confessed, "I do not. However, I do find it strange that you are so liberal in your praise of me."

"You cannot think yourself undeserving."

"I must bow to your superior knowledge, sir," Elizabeth replied, "for I know not what virtues I have demonstrated to you. I shall think myself very deserving of all the praise you have, for your judgement is too sound to give any to undeserving persons."

"I am merely doing my duty," Darcy answered. "Your good qualities are under my protection."

"Are they so fragile they require a guardian?"

Darcy sat heavily beside her. "I had thought your playful spirit returning to you. It was a jest, dearest. Do not make yourself uneasy."

"I am not uneasy," Elizabeth protested. "Only at a disadvantage. I understand so little of what has transpired. I can hardly think of anything I have done to inspire your esteem."

"Or," he added, "what I might have done to earn yours."

She could not, as she had said earlier, love someone because she wished to. To have her love would relieve his pain, but it was not something she could give so freely. Her spirits were low. He had tried so many times to draw her into a playful scene. Without any of her usual pursuits, she was unable to sustain her usual mood. It was so unlike herself to allow herself to stew in unhappiness for so long. She could normally laugh herself out of her troubles. She had neither love nor laughter to give him, but feeling he deserved something, Elizabeth said, "Thank you for inviting my parents."

This time, he did not protest her gratitude. "Shall we rejoin your mother?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Bruises  
**Chapter Eight

* * *

By the time Elizabeth and Darcy returned, the gallery was no longer a place of interest for the rest of the party. Mrs. Bennet had oohed and ahhed over the girls' efforts to their satisfaction. There was little else to hold anyone's attention. The children had not yet learned to appreciate the history of Pemberley. Mrs. Bennet could only be persuaded to appreciate the financial windfall of her daughter. Mr. Darcy's ancestors were beyond her scope of interest.

As Elizabeth passed it, the portrait of Darcy caught her eye again. Without a conscious intent, she stopped walking to better admire it.

"Lizzy," her mother chided, "I did not come all this way so that you could stare at things you see every day."

Realizing she had been, in fact, staring, Elizabeth flushed. She glanced towards Darcy, hoping he had not noticed. Thankfully, he seemed occupied with Thomas for the moment.

"I apologize," Elizabeth said as her mother approached. "I am grateful you made the journey. I know it cannot have been easy."

This was an excellent thing to say, for it allowed Mrs. Bennet to speak at length on her favorite topic: her own misfortunes. Everything had conspired to make the trip as difficult as possible: the roads, the weather, the carriage, the company.

"Father did look very ill," Elizabeth said with some concern. "Was the journey hard for him?"

This, Mrs. Bennet waved off. "Your father, he's forever off here and there. We scarcely see him at Longbourn at all anymore, which suits me. He never came out for company when he was there. It is all the same to me if he is not. Mark my words, Lizzy, he made himself ill."

The thought of her father making himself sick with worry over her pained Elizabeth. "I am sorry to have given you both such trouble," she replied.

Linking arms with her daughter, Mrs. Bennet said in a hushed tone, "I hope you are not giving _Mr. Darcy_ any trouble."

Elizabeth bit her lip. "He has been very attentive."

Mrs. Bennet pat her hand. "You were a good girl and you made a fine match. I would think it should take more than a few headaches to make someone unhappy in a house such as this. Still, you are in luck. If you give Mr. Darcy cause to regret his choice now, there is little he can do about it."

"Mother," Elizabeth hissed.

"But, you must remember," Mrs. Bennet continued, "he is your husband and he can make you miserable if he chooses. Men can be very petty creatures."

"Mr. Darcy is a respectable gentleman," Elizabeth said, "I can have nothing to worry about on that score." She let her eyes drift back to the man himself. He had entered into a conversation with Fitzwilliam, which absolved Darcy of any need to speak for the foreseeable future. With no expectation of needing to reply, he did not need to attend to Fitzwilliam's speech. Darcy could be listening to her mother, Elizabeth realized with dread.

After giving it some thought, Mrs. Bennet did agree with Elizabeth's claims, but for a different reason. "You have given him two sons," she said. "He can hardly ask anything else of you." Eyeing Elizabeth's rotund abdomen, Mrs. Bennet added lowly, "However apparent it is that he _does_. Well. You can put a stop to all that, I dare say."

Mortified, Elizabeth could see Darcy's jaw clench. "He can hear you."

"What does it signify if he does hear me? It does not come as a shock to men that their wives find the duty distasteful."

"It is a shocking thing to say in his own home, in the presence of his children," Elizabeth replied coldly. "If you wish to express your opinion on any other subject, I shall not censure you. However, I must ask that you do not presume to speak for me on that, or any other, score."

"Why your father visits you so much, I shall never know," Mrs. Bennet bemoaned. "But I am sure you do not embarrass him. It is only me who is exposed to ridicule at every turn. I am only your mother, I was so worried, dear Lizzy. I cannot see why Mr. Darcy wrote what he did."

Not so gifted at assigning Mr. Darcy his motivations, Elizabeth went forth with the utmost care. "I think he was afraid. I remember so little of my acquaintance with him and nothing at all of the children. He thought, and he was correct in thinking so, that having you and my father at Pemberley would give me comfort."

Mrs. Bennet preened. "Never you fear, Lizzy, I shall stay as long as you need me. I shall not think of going until after the babe comes, at least."

"You are very generous," Elizabeth said. She wondered if Mr. Darcy would be able to bear Mrs. Bennet's company for so long. Her mother was a source of endless frustration for herself, but it was a relationship Elizabeth was accustomed to. Surely, Darcy must be used to her parents by now, but several months in their company may be beyond his endurance.

In the spirit of generosity, Mrs. Bennet again applied to Elizabeth for money.

"Mama," she said patiently, "the children are very happy to have you here. They do not require anything else of you."

To Elizabeth's utter humiliation, Mrs. Bennet called out to Darcy himself and declared, "My dear Mr. Darcy! My Lizzy, who is normally such a good sort of girl, absolutely refuses to hear her own mother out! To have come all this way, and be treated so!"

Darcy caught Elizabeth's eye. She grimaced. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, and then, with studied politeness, inquired as to the nature of Mrs. Bennet's complaint.

Elizabeth blushed furiously as her mother ranted at Darcy about Mr. Bennet's haste to get to Derbyshire, which was done so rapidly she had not had the time to properly prepare for the trip. All she had asked of Lizzy was that she call for a carriage and lend her a bit of money so that she could buy the children presents, as she hated to see them empty handed.

Darcy clasped his hands behind his back. "Do you intend to go to Lambton?" he asked.

"Yes!" Mrs. Bennet cried, "Lambton, that dear village where my sister Gardiner grew up. That very village is where I had hoped to go."

"It would be no trouble at all to call for a carriage to take you to Lambton," Darcy replied.

To Elizabeth's continued mortification, Mrs. Bennet could not contain her pleasure.

After the worst of her effusions had died down, Darcy continued. "Might I suggest an alteration of your plan? Mrs. Darcy, I am sure, finds presents unnecessary?" He looked questioningly towards Elizabeth, who nodded. "I must agree with her. However, the children would enjoy going into Lambton themselves. If you wished to take them to play on the green, we would be much obliged. For a group of that size, the coach would be the most fitting." To Elizabeth, he added, "Going to Lambton was a favorite pastime of myself as a boy. Mr. Wickham and I would walk to the green almost daily."

Fitzwilliam puffed his chest out with his own importance. "I," he announced, "go to Lambton the most. I have business there."

Elizabeth smiled fondly at him. Darcy said quietly, "I take Fitzwilliam to observe my business whenever possible."

"I shall introduce Grandmama to the attorney and the rector," he added. To Mrs. Bennet, Fitzwilliam said sternly, "They are important people to know."

"I am sure Grandmama would be very pleased to be introduced to your important business connections," Elizabeth interjected, "but we must not be distracted from the purpose of this visit."

Fitzwilliam turned that over in his mind. "I suppose not," he conceded. "I am very sorry, Grandmama, but if we go to Lambton to see the green, that is what we must do."

"Yes," Julia broke in, "let us go to Lambton! Miss Weston never takes us! We could walk all the way if we needed to!"

Eliza echoed those sentiments, but with less confidence.

"Of course," Julia added, glancing at Eliza, "Thomas is too little to walk all that way. We really would need the carriage."

Thomas tugged on his grandmother's gown and said, "Please," as many as two times in his eagerness to go.

"Mr. Darcy!" Mrs. Bennet cried, indignant. "How can you think of sending dear little Eliza ten miles in a carriage in weather like this! She will catch her death of cold!"

The weight of disappointment settled heavy on Eliza's shoulders. "I do not have to go," she said quietly.

But Mr. Darcy said, "Nonsense. The weather is not at all unusual for Derbyshire this time of year. I assure you, Mrs. Bennet, Eliza is accustomed to it. Fresh air and a change of scenery will be good for her."

Considerably cheered by her father's defense, Eliza insisted, "Yes, yes, it will be so good for me, Grandmama!"

Though she had been set upon her own plan, Mrs. Bennet could not resist the excitement and hope of four grandchildren. A wish to pay deference to Darcy's judgement may have also played a role in her reluctant agreement. Fathers did not know much about daughters, but if Darcy felt his children could withstand the Derbyshire chill, who was she to disagree?

A five mile journey into Lambton turned out to be a more complex endeavor than Elizabeth would have anticipated. She had spent her childhood walking into Meryton. Such a trip had never required anything from the rest of the household.

For a party of five to take a carriage into Lambton, the best conveyance was, as Darcy had suggested, the coach. It answered all of her mother's feelings about the grandeur of Pemberley and the Darcy household. Darcy called for the coach to be prepared with a two-horse team. One driver on the box enough for the carriage, but for the sake of the safety in all involved, he ordered — to Mrs. Bennet's pleasure — two outriders. And, because one grandmother could not keep watch on four children at once, the addition of a footman to the party was considered necessary.

Once everything was prepared to Darcy's satisfaction, the children were bundled into their hats and coats and were off.

"I hope to go to Lambton myself soon," Elizabeth offered as she and Darcy watched the carriage disappear down the road.

"It is a charming village," he replied. "Aunt Gardiner spent many years there as a girl. I believe the transition from Hertfordshire to Derbyshire was made easier for you by her connections. You came to this part of the country having a common ground with many of the local people."

"And was the green really so interesting to you as a boy?" she inquired. Once she was well enough to leave the house, visiting the friends of Mrs. Gardiner must be done. For now she was content to hear about Darcy's experiences with the village. "Pemberley itself must have many places for a boy to play."

Darcy agreed that it did, but added, "There is nothing of any particular interest on the green, but it is a public space. It was more interesting to myself as a boy — and to our children — because it is not part of Pemberley. The children encounter very little that does not belong to the family. They find things that do not belong to them unusual, and therefore more interesting."

"And I suppose you never deny them anything they wish for," Elizabeth posited.

"I have no wish to deny them anything that would bring them happiness," was Darcy's reply.

"I think you must have brought my mother happiness as well, accommodating her so! I hope you were not anticipating varied conversation at dinner. I fear all you will hear are her thanks."

He smiled and said, "I shall try to bear it."

* * *

Had she been pressed, Elizabeth would have been unable to name a source for her renewed vigor other than her father's appearance at dinner. Reassurances from herself and rest in a familiar bed had him looking much better than when the Bennets had arrived. Throughout the meal, he was her favorite conversation partner. For the first time, presiding at the table as mistress of Pemberley was not strange. As the second daughter, she had sat on his left. With herself hostess, Mr. Bennet sat on her right, a place of honor for a male guest. Though the arrangement of the table was different, her view of her father was the same.

The separation of the sexes after the meal was short. Even the drawing room was cheerier to Elizabeth once her father joined her there! Though she usually retired long before supper, on that evening, she was determined to spend all the time she could in the drawing room. She would not play. Elizabeth was resolved to talk and laugh as much as she could.

Being people of fashion, the Darcys served dinner at a late hour. When supper was served, Elizabeth reflected these were the happiest hours she could recall spending at Pemberley! Feeling time had passed altogether too quickly, she looked to the grand clock. It was only nine.

With some confusion, she said to Darcy, "Supper is being served very early."

"I do not wish to tax you," he confessed. "With an early service, you will be able to retire soon."

"I am the hostess," Elizabeth reminded him. "I cannot retire before my guests. Do you intend to have my mother and father removed from the drawing room?"

"It is not my usual practice to have footmen accost my elders," he replied easily. "A subtle reminder that though you are a proper hostess, you are fatigued should be enough."

"I shall issue a subtle reminder that as a proper hostess, I expect to be kept abreast of any changes to the serving schedule."

He said, "Of course," sounding very pleased. Elizabeth could not account for why.

However Darcy chose to issue his subtle hint that Mr. and Mrs. Bennet should retire, Mr. Bennet was prepared to heed it. Mrs. Bennet, who was of the opinion Elizabeth had very little to complain about, required a stronger hand. Unwilling to be openly disrespectful, Mr. Darcy left that task to Mr. Bennet.

When their guests had departed, Elizabeth allowed Darcy to escort her to her apartment. He left her in the care of Perry. Darcy shut the dressing room door as he left. Elizabeth heard another door open and close soon afterwards.

With Perry's help, Elizabeth shed her fine evening dress and exchanged it for a nightgown. As she sat at her vanity table, Elizabeth applied to both Perry's discretion and good information on a matter that had recently become an object of concern. "When you so kindly gave me a tour of the apartment," Elizabeth said, "I did not properly understand some of your meaning."

"I should like to be of service any way I can, ma'am," Perry replied. "If you have questions, I will happily answer them."

"Mr. Darcy's dressing room connects to the bedroom, I understand," Elizabeth began. As she hung Elizabeth's gown in the closet, Perry affirmed this was true. "His valet, a…Mr. Wigfield, services Mr. Darcy in that room?"

"Wigfield, yes, ma'am."

"I imagine they are in there just now, going through the same process we are."

At this Perry laughed. "I hope the process is a little different. Mr. Darcy doesn't grow impatient and plait his own hair."

Flicking her braid over her shoulder, Elizabeth answered, "I am very grateful for your assistance! I could never keep my gowns half so well as you. But I grew up without a lady's maid of my own and am quite adept at plaiting my own hair."

"So long as you need me for your gowns, I've no cause to complain," Perry said. "And what pretty gowns they are."

"Indeed. But, you see, now we have reached the part that I do not understand." It was a sensitive subject. Elizabeth was embarrassed to ask a servant. If she thought she could regain her peace of mind in ignorance, her pride would prefer it over applying to a maid, even if she was the highest maid in the household. "Mr. Darcy prepares for the morning, dinner and bed in that dressing room. Yet, where does he sleep?"

Perry colored. "Pray you will forgive my impertinence, ma'am, but Mr. Darcy usually sleeps in your bed. As long as you've been ill, he's slept in his dressing room."

Elizabeth's dressing room was spacious. The architects of Pemberley had built it with the intention of it being a nursery. It could easily have accommodated cradles, beds, chairs and toys. Overall, the space was not utilized well as a dressing room. If, for some reason of their own, someone had a mind to place a bed inside, there was ample room. It did not, she had to admit, sound like something anyone was particularly likely to do. "Does Mr. Darcy have a bed?"

"I do not have much cause to go into Mr. Darcy's dressing room myself, ma'am," Perry said anxiously. "But I would think not. Wigfield, if you will forgive my saying, can be ill-tempered. I have not heard from him about any furniture being moved, and he is the sort to complain below stairs if it were."

"Thank you, Perry. I believe that will be all to-night."

Clad in her nightdress and dressing gown, Elizabeth wandered into the bedroom after Perry disappeared through the servant's door. Cautiously, she crept toward Mr. Darcy's door. Placing her ear against it, she could not hear any evidence of Wigfield still being present. She would not want to interrupt Darcy while he was changing.

To be very safe, Elizabeth waited another half hour before knocking on Darcy's door. He called for her to enter. When he saw it was his wife, he jumped hastily to his feet. He had been lying on a chaise longue, himself prepared for bed. His nightshirt was billowing, not at all like the form fitting clothing he wore throughout the day. Quite the contrast from his high collared shirts and cravats, Darcy's nightshirt left his neck bare. He had neglected to button it closed along his chest.

These observations were cut short by Darcy quickly bundling himself in a dressing gown.

Determined not to be cowed by his state of undress, Elizabeth said very formally, "Mr. Darcy, I wish to speak to you about a very troubling account I have lately received from Perry."

"Perry?" he repeated. Darcy gestured for Elizabeth to sit. Delicately, she sat on the edge of the chaise longue. Darcy sat in his shaving chair. "What could Perry have to trouble you with? She should know better."

"I am afraid I can be very determined when I want the truth of a matter," Elizabeth confessed.

"Yes," he said, "I know."

"Then you cannot be surprised that when I began to have suspicions, I immediately applied to her for the truth." Wishing she had some better way to occupy them, Elizabeth folded her hands on her lap.

"No indeed. Pray what troubling news have you heard?"

Deciding the better course was to come right out with it, Elizabeth declared, "It has come to my attention, sir, that you have been sleeping in your dressing room."

To this accusation, he had no reply.

Though she felt her source of information and own observations upon entering the room were sound, she wished to hear it from Darcy. "Is this true?"

"It is."

The layout of her bedroom was such that it was plain to see the room was meant to be occupied by both the mistress and the master. That it had taken her so long to realize Darcy simply did not have a bedroom of his own, Elizabeth attributed to her befuddled mind. A treacherous part of her suggested that she had not noticed simply because she had not cared to. Like the episode with his tea, she had been willfully blind to him.

"It cannot continue."

Elizabeth was taken by surprise when he asked, "What would you suggest as an alternative?"

It had been generous of Mr. Darcy to remove himself from the bedroom the first night she was convalescing. Afterwards, when she had neither memory of their union nor a fondness for him, he continued to stay away. Elizabeth was grateful for his compassion for her maidenly feelings. However, it did not follow that a man who evacuated his own bedroom must be without a bed. "In a house of this size, there are many beds to be found. Choose whichever one you like."

"I refuse to live a guest in my own house."

Elizabeth huffed. "That is ridiculous. You are no less the master of all you survey because you have moved from one ornate room to another."

"It is hardly a matter of the decorations of the room!" he bit.

"No," Elizabeth agreed, "it is a matter of your pride."

"Thank you for explaining it so fully," Mr Darcy said coldly. "It has been a long day. I know you must be fatigued. I must ask you to retire."

"I shall not," she insisted. "Not until you have seen reason. You cannot sleep on a chair because you fear giggling below stairs."

"I do not fear gossiping laundry maids," Darcy replied.

His harsh tone, which may have frightened others, only frustrated his wife. "Then why are you so unreasonable?"

"It is as I said," he answered with a sigh. "I shall not play at being a guest in the house I was born in. My wife and my children live in the family wing. I shall not be made to leave."

If he thought she would not rise to his stubborn challenge, Darcy was mistaken. "Then I shall. I have no attachment to these rooms over any other." Elizabeth shrugged. "I should be content in a guest room."

This solution, too, he would not hear of. "It is better for you to have familiar surroundings."

"They are not familiar," she protested.

"Not yet," he said fiercely. "You may yet recall something, an item or an event, from being in your usual apartment."

Squaring her shoulders, Elizabeth said, "Then you must have equal share of that apartment, if you will not go elsewhere." She stood, and held her hand out to him. "Come."

Darcy did not take the offered hand, but instead folded his own across his lap. "Elizabeth, allow me to be blunt." She was silent, and as he had no opposition, Darcy continued: "You must be well enough to survive a birth in two months. This extraordinary fatigue you have displayed since the accident worries me. At present, I believe our only concern must be in mastering the physical effects of what has taken place."

Refusing to be intimidated by morbid predictions, Elizabeth replied, "You told me yourself I have never given the midwife any cause to fear."

"Yes," he agreed, "but that was before I had observed how enduring this illness has proved to be."

She gave him an encouraging smile. "You underestimate my stamina. I have grown stronger each day."

Unswayed, Darcy said, "I do no such thing. The number of activities you can withstand grows each day. The time you can read grows. I see that improvement. I am pleased by it. It does not follow that rest has become superfluous."

"How am I to rest easily," she countered, "knowing how uncomfortable you must be?"

"You are very ill," he replied. Darcy pressed his lips together for a long moment and continued. "You cannot burden yourself with concerns on my behalf. You must be strong when you are brought to bed. I thank you for the attention. Let us consider the matter settled."

"It is not a burden to have compassion for my husband," Elizabeth cried.

Darcy could not look at her as he said, "In your heart, you are a virgin, not a wife. You could not rest easy with a man beside you."

"I am not inviting you to take liberties with my person," she replied. Inwardly, she reflected that owing to their marriage, his touch was not a liberty so much as his right. Whatever her mother said, Elizabeth could not reconcile the idea of an intention to live harmoniously with a spouse with denying that spouse his rights. He did not seem inclined to take a husband's prerogative. That much suited Elizabeth. In light of his concern for her recovery, she could only assume he felt amorous activities would be detrimental. "I am inviting you to sleep." Raising an eyebrow she added, "I have shared a bed with my sisters on occasion and suffered no adverse effects."

"I have limits, Elizabeth. Please, go. We will speak in the morning. You shall see I am no worse for wear."

That Darcy was a man who liked to have his own way was one of Elizabeth's earliest observations. Upon reflection, it appeared the only one of her initial judgements to be correct. He had decided his course of action and he was not to be tempted from it. She was obstinate. She always had been. Her lips quirked as she considered marrying a man whose stubbornness rivaled her own had perhaps not been her best idea.

"You are very obstinate," she said, with mock disapproval. "I suppose you think I shall relent because I am a woman, and you are the master of this estate."

"No," he said, tight reign on his own tone. Voice very level, Darcy said, "I suppose you shall relent because I have asked you to, and I can do no more than that."

"You can do more than that, in fact," Elizabeth protested. "You can stop being foolish and come to bed. I know how you dislike being foolish."

He closed his eyes. "Good night, Elizabeth."

Darcy could not have made the dismissal any clearer had he called on footmen to remove her. Coolly, she said, "Good night, sir."

Though he had denied himself for her comfort, Elizabeth slept fitfully. She wished she could exalt in throwing over his scheme, but the triumph was bitter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Bruises  
**Chapter Nine

* * *

There was a time in her life when Elizabeth had had her pick of confidants.

Miss Charlotte Lucas, as was, had shared her friend's interest for observing others and sketching their characters. Charlotte had been particularly skilled at finding patterns of behavior in the people around her, which lead her to make excellent predictions of their future actions. A younger Elizabeth would have turned to Charlotte's intuition when she found herself befuddled by an acquaintance. Intimacy with Charlotte must be a thing of the past now. The present Charlotte Collins was too sensible a woman, too astute a student of human nature, to respect her husband. Marrying a man she could not respect in order to secure material comforts had lowered Charlotte in Elizabeth's estimation. It had not effected her fondness for her lifelong friend, but her faith in Charlotte's good judgement must be at an end. To further complicate the matter, Elizabeth had married into the family of Mrs. Collins' benefactress. A solid friendship could bridge the gulf of class and ranking, but they were both too practical to feign ignorance of it. Elizabeth could not turn to Charlotte, even had she been available.

Dearest Jane was all that was good, and all that Elizabeth could never hope to be. Beauty, serenity, kindness and modesty had never before joined together to make such a splendid creature. Elizabeth could not really wish to be like her sister. She took too much joy in laughter and activity to ever be properly serene. But she did wish to have Jane's loyalty and hear Jane's opinions. They did not always agree. Jane was too satisfied by all the world. She could never see folly, so she could never enjoy it. Elizabeth confided in Jane when she needed advice.

She confided in her father when she needed to laugh. Mr. Bennet was not of a temper to allow for vexation. He had taught Elizabeth to turn what upset her into a joke. If what was painful became ridiculous, it lost its power to hurt. This was a gift to be used sparingly. To twist another person into an object of ridicule put the ability to do harm into her hands.

To go to Jane was impossible at present, but if she wished to run to Mr. Bennet, she could. In her heart, Elizabeth knew she could not go to either of them to vent her frustrations. The person at the center of them was Mr. Darcy. He was her husband. He was owed her loyalty. It should be said to him and no one else.

Elizabeth did not know Mr. Darcy's schedule, but whatever time he had available for her to claim, she would. Because she spent half of a sleepless night coming to this resolution, Elizabeth rang for Perry much earlier than her usual custom. Dutiful no matter the time, Perry helped Elizabeth through her toilette and had a platter of rolls sent up from the kitchen. Whatever caused her mistress to need her morning gown so early could not be faced on an empty stomach when the woman was carrying a child.

Elizabeth was dressed, had eaten and was ready to receive him when Darcy emerged from his dressing room. He was startled to see her, awake and pacing, when she was normally still asleep at this time of day. When he recovered himself, he bowed.

Elizabeth smiled. "When you said I should see you this morning, I suspect you had no notion it would be this early." Tired as she was, her resolution had been enough to restore her sanguine temper. Elizabeth was determined to meet the challenge of confessing all of her turmoil to Darcy with courage, optimism and good cheer.

Darcy said, "Indeed I had not."

"Well," she chirped, "you must know I delight in overthrowing your schemes, so here I am."

Cautiously, he said, "Perry must have been very surprised to be wanted so early."

"She bore it well."

"And you?" Darcy asked. "Are you well?"

"You know I am not," Elizabeth answered. "I went to bed angry and I woke the same." If he was confused by her claims of anger spoken in a tone that was anything but, Darcy did not betray it.

He pursed his lips. "I do not expect us to agree on all matters," Darcy said, "but you know I was correct yesterday evening."

"I know nothing of the kind," she replied lightly. "If the maidenly feelings of virgin wives were to be forever preserved, how is anyone to have children?" Her courage demanded honesty, and Elizabeth added, in a more serious tone, "I do appreciate your consideration in this matter thus far. I shall not have you think otherwise. However, I do not think it to be a thing avoided forever."

"We have children enough that it can be avoided at present," he answered.

Elizabeth blushed, and decided to accept that answer, for she really did prefer that to the alternative. "I still believe there is a better solution to be found regarding where you are sleeping."

"If I had a bed moved in to my dressing room," Darcy asked, "would that satisfy you?"

"If you are determined to stay," she replied, "that will have to do. I shall send word for find a suitable piece to be located and moved directly."

Darcy nodded. "It is good to see you comfortable taking on such tasks. I was pleased yesterday evening with how you comported yourself as hostess. I was not certain you would take to the role."

She remembered knowing he was happy after dinner, but had been unable to discern why. Elizabeth had presided over her table without a thought that the duty should not be hers. The house had only one mistress. She would not wish for someone else to do the tasks that rightfully belonged to her. "I had noticed your good mood," Elizabeth said.

That pleased him. Darcy was likely acutely aware of how oblivious she had been to his needs. That she was beginning to understand him must give him hope. Yet, there was still so much she did not understand.

"I am glad we have reached an accord," he was saying. "Have you any other concerns?"

Elizabeth blinked. "Yes, if you have the time to hear them."

"Certainly."

Though she understood him to be accommodating, Elizabeth had not anticipated Darcy agreeing to her request this easily. "When are you available?"

"I have nothing pressing at this hour," Darcy replied. "If you find talking now suitable, it can be done."

"I would, thank you," Elizabeth said. "Shall we go to my sitting room?"

Darcy allowed her to lead the way to the sitting room. They settled themselves at the table where they had eaten together on the first night. When she had asked about their relationship, Darcy struggled to speak of it. His account had been lacking, a string of events loosely tied together by nothing save their own appearances. Because she had decided not to trust what he told her, Elizabeth was just as content to have a poorly done tale. The lack of details in his telling saved her the effort of reinterpreting their meaning.

As Darcy adjusted to their situation, he found it easier to speak with her. She no longer doubted his word. A Darcy who was willing to speak and an Elizabeth willing to listen may yet learn to live in peace with one another. The story she needed to know was Darcy's tale to tell. There was no one else who could tell it with any justice. Elizabeth was curious to know the impressions of her family when her past self announced an intention to marry Darcy, but she could not learn anything worthwhile about the courtship from them. As long as she had no recollections of her own, his account — his full, candid account — was the _only_ one that mattered.

"Pray," Darcy said when they were seated, "what is concerning you? I shall do everything in my power to correct it, of course."

"How good of you to say so," Elizabeth replied, "for I have given it some consideration and I believe only you have the power to put my mind at ease."

"I should wish for nothing else," he said. "But you must tell me your concerns before I may correct them."

"Indeed," she said. "I am pleased to have so willing a champion in you. I fear once you know what I wish for, you will not be so agreeable." Though he had been speaking to her with greater ease as the days passed, Elizabeth had to acknowledge that most of what they spoke of was her family. The children. Her parents. His own childhood. He may yet find speaking of their history to be difficult. He may yet wish to be silent.

Unable to retain a playful expression, Darcy shifted. "Anything you wish for shall be done," he insisted.

"You need not be so grave, sir," Elizabeth told him. She had remained ignorant too long to let him keep his silence. If he was to speak, he wanted for encouragement. "I wish only for my questions to be answers. I do not believe you will enjoy answering them, but your present anxiety is unnecessary."

"Ask," he commanded, "and I shall determine how well suited my anxiety is."

"I wish to know more of our history," she said, smiling at him. "That is all. We have spoken of this before, but I find myself wanting more information."

Darcy relaxed. Whatever specter he had feared had been vanquished. "My telling was disappointing," he said. "I told you it would be so."

"You told me it would disappoint me because there were no gothic castles on the continent," she reminded him. "I can do without _those_ quite well. I am afraid your telling did very little to help me understand how so much changed between us."

He was silent for a long moment, examining either her words or their past. Perhaps both. Finally, he said, "I do not know where to begin."

Elizabeth reflected on that. "In our case," she suggested, "we did not always know one another. You did not always admire me. There, I have found your beginning."

"I cannot identify the moment I came to admire you," he confessed. "The look or the words that laid the foundation have been lost to every look and word that followed them."

It was a pretty speech, she admitted, but still very vague. "You admired me in Hertfordshire," she said. Certain things he had said in Kent implied that he had, though she had not felt his admiration at the time. Elizabeth expected him to confirm her words. Such an expectation was not formed by her vanity — though that could not be untouched — but by a desire to better understand him.

"Almost from the first moments," he said.

She blushed. "I had no notion of it," Elizabeth replied. "I thought you disliked me."

"I did not want you to have any notion of it then," Darcy said.

She nodded. Elizabeth knew enough of his objections to their union as to preclude asking _why_ he had wished to hide his preference. Still possessing a small measure of offense by his perceptions of her family's inferiority, she felt no inclination to linger on those feelings.

"At the time," Darcy continued, "I disguised my feelings because I did not want to raise expectations in yourself or the neighborhood for a union between ourselves. I have have since formed an excellent understanding of how little I influenced your hopes in those days."

Elizabeth retained from asking when he had formed such an understanding. It would have served him better had he formed it before his declaration. Elizabeth said instead, "When did your intentions for me change?"

"When we met in Kent," Darcy confessed. "I had thought you understood me there. I supposed I had raised your expectations, and I had done so with every intention of fulfilling them."

Her brow furrowed. "Why would you think I held any expectations of you?"

"I had thought my interest was made clear," he replied. "We spoke of a woman's settling far from her family. We met at the grove to walk out together. I had thought you understood. I had thought you encouraging. I had never entertained the idea my address would be unwelcome."

Elizabeth had told him where in the park she would be to warn him away. She had found it so strange, at the time, that he appeared there so often! He had taken her words as an invitation. When she spoke of Charlotte being far from her parents in Kent, Darcy had been thinking of taking herself to the distant Derbyshire. When viewed in the light that he admired her, all of his cryptic, puzzling behavior made sense.

"When I first offered for you," Darcy continued, "I had wanted to show you the strength of my admiration. All of those things I said that insulted you — I had hoped to show you those things meant nothing to me in the face of my passion for you."

Elizabeth flushed. To that, she could say nothing and so, she was silent.

Agitated, he rose from his chair and began pacing circles around the sitting room. Elizabeth watched, giving Darcy time to work the tension from his body. After some time, she said, "Eliza does that."

Startled, Darcy said, "Pardon?"

"Eliza walks circles around the room."

All at once, Darcy noticed what he was doing and smiled. "Yes. When she is restless." Speaking of their daughter calmed his spirits. Soon, Darcy returned to his chair.

Feeling it best to consider the darker period of their acquaintance adequately canvassed, Elizabeth said, "You told me you wrote a letter."

"Yes."

The letter itself was another item of concern for Elizabeth. Darcy told her that he had written it only to defend himself, with no intention of his ever meeting with her again. This stated intention was difficult for Elizabeth to reconcile with the actual outcome of their marriage. What could induce her to marry a man who disregarded her refusal of his hand so far as to write a letter, and wrote a cruel letter at that? "The last time we spoke of it, you said much of the tone of this letter, but little of its contents," Elizabeth said. Tone could be a matter of judgement. It was possible what he found bitter and angry did not read that way to an unrelated person. Or, perhaps the information itself exonerated him entirely. "It would be helpful if you were to divulge that much."

"The letter consisted of an account of my dealings with Mr. Wickham," Darcy explained, "and my reasons for encouraging Bingley to leave your sister."

"Jane and Mr. Bingley are married now," Elizabeth announced. Darcy nodded. "Your interference came for naught. However, as I am trying to understand yourself and our marriage, I should like to know why you did what you did regardless."

"I was very wrong to have done it," was his answer.

"Yes," Elizabeth said easily. "that I knew. I think I am beginning to see the disparity in our thinking. You speak of feeling and tone when I ask about events. I must know what happened, sir, if I am to understand it. It is good that you know you were wrong to do it, but it does not follow that it no longer matters that you did. It is a piece of our history that you know, and I do not. I must insist that you tell me."

"I had known Bingley for some years before our sojourn into Hertfordshire. Once there, he immediately preferred Jane to all other women in the country. He paid her attentions to the point of incivility to the rest of Meryton."

"Not true," Elizabeth protested. Bingley preferred to speak with Jane above any other activity. He spoke to others in the neighborhood perhaps less than he did Jane, but he was very amiable when he did. "He was a great favorite. We all found him charming."

"I forget," Darcy said, smiling. "_I_ was the uncivil one."

Elizabeth smirked. "If you are looking for me to contradict you, you shall be disappointed. Your behavior was abominable."

"I cannot think of it without abhorrence," he replied. "_You_ have trained me to think on it not at all."

"I have?"

"It is your particular philosophy to think only of the past as it gives you pleasure, is it not?"

To this, she had to agree. "I do prefer to save my hours of reflection for that which brings me satisfaction."

"And you do not wish for me to brood and repent at length," Darcy added. "That would be time better spent laughing."

Elizabeth frowned. "I cannot recall if I have ever heard you laugh. You smile very often."

"I am sure you must have," Darcy said. He could not offer any examples, but Elizabeth did not find that strange. She herself could not have accounted for all the times she laughed. It was a thing she did often and without thinking much on it.

"Perhaps," Elizabeth accepted, uncertain. She tried to think back on it. Had he laughed in Hertfordshire or Kent? More importantly, had he laughed when they were together at Pemberley? She did not know. She had learned to watch for his smiles. They blossomed often. She had not yet learned to listen for his laughter. "But we were speaking of Jane and Mr. Bingley."

"Indeed we were," Darcy said, allowing her to return to their former subject. "He is your brother. You may call him Charles. You have long been 'Lizzy' to him."

"You call him Bingley," she pointed out. "And me Elizabeth."

He shrugged. "I prefer Elizabeth."

"And what do I prefer to call you, sir?"

He laughed. "You prefer to call me 'sir,' as you find my speech to be courteous in words, but less so in the feeling behind it. In your view, I especially overuse 'sir,' and especially with gentlemen I dislike. Teasing me for it has been a source of amusement for you these ten years. Over time, you have come to address me as 'sir' more often than anything else, so that you might especially overuse the term as well. You reserve addressing me as 'Fitzwilliam' for when you are feeling very grave."

"I shall keep that it mind," Elizabeth replied, "so that I might only address you so at the proper times. Now, what of Jane and Charles?" They were finding it extraordinarily difficult to stay on topic.

Darcy continued his tale, and in doing so, continued to use his brother's family name. "Bingley preferred Jane to any other woman in Meryton. It was very like him to have a favorite everywhere he went, and I confess, it concerned me little. On the evening of the ball at Netherfield, however, it came to my attention that Meryton expected an engagement between the two in the near future. To those of us familiar with him, Bingley's sisters and myself, his interest in Jane was not out of the ordinary. To the neighborhood, his attentions were marked and could scarcely be interpreted as anything but a courtship."

This account of Bingley's predilections was shocking to Elizabeth. "I cannot believe it of Mr. Bingley to be a cad!"

"He was not anything of the kind," Darcy said fiercely. "Bingley made friends and favorites everywhere he went. As a consequence of not having a house of his own, he traveled frequently with friends and was often meeting new people. Yet he is also of a temper to be easily influenced by the will of others. If Bingley learned that the neighborhood was expecting a declaration, I believe he would have made one immediately."

"You did not wish for a marriage."

"I did not," Darcy admitted. "Once separated from Jane, I expected Bingley would forget her as easily as he had every favorite before her. I did not believe Jane loved Bingley.

Elizabeth burst. "Jane's feelings —!"

He held up a hand to silence her. "Yes. I know. My estimation of Jane's feelings, of her very character, was incorrect. The information you relayed to me the evening at the Parsonage, I ,of course, accepted as correct. You are in every way of knowing your sister much better than myself. However, knowing Bingley's disposition, I still felt the separation to have been for the best. It was some months before I was able to admit my expectation of Bingley was also wrong."

"I imagine the condition of my family also played a role," Elizabeth bit.

"Yes," he replied, "but had I believed Jane loved him, I would have overlooked your family in his case, as I did in my own."

"What else did you write of Jane?"

"I do not believe I wrote even that much," Darcy replied. "I am better acquainted with her now than I was then, of course. I had also written the letter before I learned to repent any of what had happened. You could not have been pleased to read it. I accepted your own assessment of your sister while also expressing satisfaction in my own actions."

While Elizabeth felt his assessment of her feelings on what he had written about her beloved sister was sound, there must have been something in the letter to please her. He could not have written a missive that was entirely cruel and conceited, and have her welcome him when they met again. "What of Mr. Wickham? The circumstances of Julia and her brother — and Lydia! — have me acquainted with his disreputable side, but since that happened after we were wed, I suppose you must have had other unfortunate dealings with him."

Darcy began the other piece of his tale: "As you know, he was the son of my father's steward, and very beloved by him. In our youth, Mr. Wickham and myself were constant companions."

"Very much like Julia and Eliza, I think," Elizabeth interjected.

"In some ways, yes," Darcy conceded with a slight nod, "but in more ways, I hope, no. Mr. Wickham — though he was raised to be a gentlemen and my father intended him for the church, as he would his own younger son, had he had one — was always kept aware of his status as the son of a servant. In that, we have strove to be different. Julia, I hope, perceives no difference in our expectations of herself and Eliza. She lives in the family wing, where her father lived in servant's quarters. Her gowns, ribbons and dolls are as fine as Eliza's. She receives the same education. Julia is an equal in our family, not a lesser person we have taken a liking to."

"Shall I call my brother 'George?,'" Elizabeth asked, teasing.

Sullen, Darcy replied, "'Mr. Wickham' will do, I believe."

"Of course, sir," she said merrily. "We must speak formally of persons we disapprove of. Is that why you call Lydia 'Mrs. Wickham,' while my other sisters allow use of their Christian names?"

He smiled, but it was a tense expression, as though he was making a large effort to refrain from something more. When he had mastered this, Darcy continued, "Being a companion to Mr. Wickham, I was privy to much that my father was not. Mr. Wickham had a vicious disposition that was easy to hide from his benefactor, but not his companion. I understood from an early age that Mr. Wickham was not suited for the church."

"So when his living became vacant," Elizabeth posited, "you denied him? Based on your observations of his character?"

"I wish I could say I had that much integrity, but I did not," Darcy answered. "Upon my father's death, Mr. Wickham informed me he had no intention of taking orders. Had he wanted wanted to go into the church, even with what I knew of him, I suspect I would have supported his career. Instead, Mr. Wickham told me he intended to purse the law. I wished to believe him, and it was agreed that a sum of 3,000 pounds would be his in lieu of the living."

Because Wickham was with a militia when she had known him, Elizabeth said, "I trust he did not pursue the law."

"I could not say," Darcy replied. "We went some years without any discourse between us. I suspect he intended that money for indulging his vices from the start, but I do not truly know. He may have tried to make a career in the law and found it not to his liking. When the living did fall vacant, Mr. Wickham wrote wishing to claim it."

"This time," Elizabeth said hopefully, "you denied him."

"Yes." Darcy sighed. "Mr. Wickham had not, at that point, given up on making his way through the life by my family's fortune. When my sister, Georgiana — whom you shall call 'Georgiana,' no more of this 'Lady Grey' —"

"—Of course, sir."

"was fifteen years old, I had a house in Ramsgate set up for herself and her companion, a Mrs. Younge."

"Mr. Wickham did not importune himself on a young girl!" Elizabeth cried.

"Indeed he did," Darcy answered. "Mr. Wickham persuaded Georgiana that she was in love with him, and to agree to an elopement. I happened to visit her days before the elopement was to occur and she confessed it all. You can well imagine how I reacted."

Elizabeth was silent.

"We have now," Darcy added, "covered the contents of my letter."

The subject matter was entirely dreadful. Elizabeth did not understand their relationship any better for having heard it. That he could write viscously of such savage events and have her choose to marry him was as unfathomable as ever.

"I delivered it to you by hand," he said, "the morning after making my declaration. I waited for you in the grove. We were not seen by anyone."

She nodded.

"I departed Kent within the hour, thinking I would never see you again."

Searching for some way to lift both of their spirits after such a tale, Elizabeth tried, "You were very wrong to think so."

He smiled and said softly, "So I was. We met again, here at Pemberley, in fact, in July."

"Pemberley?" she repeated. "You told me I had made every attempt to avoid you!"

"I do not know when the invitation was issued," Darcy said, "so I cannot say if you would remember it or not, but Aunt and Uncle Gardiner invited you to take a tour with them that summer."

"Yes," Elizabeth answered. "They had not determined how far we would travel, perhaps to the Lakes, when Aunt Gardiner invited me in March."

"As it were, you were only able to travel as far as Derbyshire. Aunt Gardiner, herself having lived in Lambton, had a great desire to see Pemberley once more. My housekeeper at the time kept the house open to visitors."

"Dear Aunt Gardiner," Elizabeth said fondly. "I can well imagine I would have not wished to go to Pemberley, but I should not deny my aunt if she wished it."

"I am very fond of Aunt Gardiner," he confessed, "for that very reason. It was believed in the village that I was not home, so you met me with great surprise."

She blushed just thinking of it.

"We both of us," Darcy said thoughtfully, "were of a mind to behave ourselves better than when we had last met. I wished to show you that your reproofs had been attended to, that I was not the man you thought I was any longer. Once I had you here, I did not wish for you to ever leave. Within half an hour of seeing you again, I was as in love as I had ever been, determined as I had ever been to marry you."

His passion mounted as he spoke, leaving Elizabeth embarrassed and overwhelmed. Not requiring any response from Elizabeth, Darcy continued his narrative. "You permitted Georgiana and myself to call on you in Lambton, and visited us at Pemberley. We made plans for you to dine with us later in the week, but I was too eager to see you and called at the inn again. My timing was lucky — you had just learned from Jane about Mrs. Wickham's elopement, and were overcome enough with your emotions to confide what you learned to me. Had I not come to you at that moment, we could have just as easily never seen one another again. You were wanted at Longbourn immediately; Uncle was needed in London by your father. Your entire party departed within the hour."

"I can scarcely believe Lydia could be so stupid," Elizabeth admitted quietly. "Mr. Wickham was charming, but no good can come of an elopement. A man with good intentions will court a girl properly and wait to be wed. She could have ruined our entire family with such a scheme! She had four sisters!"

"In the whole of my acquaintance with her," Darcy said, "I have never know Mrs. Wickham to have any consideration for others, be it her parents, sisters or children. Even for herself, her decisions are thoughtless. She could have prevented her current circumstance easily. She was away from home when she eloped. The scandal could have been averted by spreading news that the initial reports of her elopement had been a miscommunication. When offered the chance to leave Mr. Wickham and save her reputation without a marriage, she refused."

"You must think my family ill-bred," Elizabeth said, "for confiding so much to you. It would have better to hide that."

Darcy seemed to be struggling with some internal conflict before making a resolution of his own. "You have the wrong of it. I am confiding this in you. After you left Derbyshire, I hied to London. The family whose care Mrs. Wickham had been in had traced her as far as London. I was in a better way of knowing Mr. Wickham's habits and friends in Town than your father or uncle. I took on the office of locating them. When Mrs. Wickham refused to leave, I negotiated the terms of the marriage. After Mr. Wickham and I had agreed upon a sum and his future prospects, I took the information to Uncle Gardiner."

Elizabeth had understood from his earlier tale that Wickham had been paid to marry her sister. On that occasion, Darcy had left out that the benefactor had been himself. When he spoke of herself being separated from him, Elizabeth had accused Darcy of inconstancy. How that accusation must of hurt him! There was no question in her mind why he had done it. A man of his station could not marry a woman whose sister had fallen on the town. Darcy had wanted her; if could not have her if she was not respectable. No, the question was, "Why did you not tell me?"

Unable to look at her, Darcy answered softly, "I knew what you thought of me. I feared if you knew I had purchased your sister's respectability, you would have thought I purchased _you_. It was never my intention for you to feel obliged to me. Even at the time, I endeavored to keep the truth hidden."

"You could not have been successful," she protested.

"No." He shook his head. "You found clues that not all was as it seemed, and investigated, of course."

Pleased with her past self's curiosity and determination for the truth, Elizabeth asked, "Then what happened?"

What happened next was not about her at all. Darcy answered, "Bingley and I returned to Netherfield. He had been of the party at Pemberley and his interest in your family made it clear to us both that he had not forgotten Jane. I confessed my wrong doings to Bingley, and he and your sister reached an understanding."

"And ourselves?" she wondered.

"I had gone to Hertforshire," Darcy replied quietly, "in the hope that I might somehow make you love me."

"I do not believe" Elizabeth said haltingly, "that one can make another love."

"No," Darcy replied. "I should think not. To my utter good fortune, you already loved me. We were wed from your father's house in the fall." He shrugged. "The rest came with time. Our children, your charity work, Jane and Bingley's settling so close. I will not tell you our lives have been only easy. We have had our share of anxiety and misfortune. Yet, I do not believe I have ever given you any cause to regret your choice."

Afterwards, when she wept, Darcy sat with Elizabeth until her sobbing subsided. A restless night, a stubborn injury, a pregnancy and emotional exhaustion exerted their combined influence and forced her back to bed. Darcy promised to go down to breakfast with her family and make her excuses.


	10. Chapter 10

**Bruises**  
Chapter Ten

* * *

When Elizabeth awoke, she pushed back the bed curtains. The day was bright, the sun high in the sky. She feared she had slept past luncheon. She hoisted herself out of bed and rang for Perry. Darcy had been at her bedside when she fell asleep, but he was gone now.

Elizabeth had never been more pleased to see Perry than she was now. Good girl that she was, she had brought up a tray of cold meat, cheese and bread.

"Good morning, ma'am!" Perry called cheerfully.

Elizabeth smiled back. "I fear it is very nearly dinner time," she said.

"It is not that late," her maid replied. "And even if it were, no one would say a word about it."

As she sampled the food Perry had so thoughtfully brought with her, Elizabeth asked, "Pray, how are my guests occupying themselves? I have been a negligent hostess."

"Mr. Bennet," Perry said thoughtfully, "I believe, is in the library. I haven't heard anyone speak of it, and I do not see him myself, but I understand that is where he can usually be found." Elizabeth nodded. "Mrs. Bennet is in the drawing room with the children."

Elizabeth fretted. "I have slept late. They are already through with their lessons?"

"Oh, no, ma'am," Perry hastened to say, "do not worry yourself so. Mrs. Bennet dismissed Miss Weston for the rest of the day."

Elizabeth sighed. "Has Mr. Darcy been informed?" She could almost understand her mother's thought process — between grandmotherly over-indulgence and her own lack of interest in giving girls an education beyond a mistress's duties, Mrs. Bennet must find a governess unnecessary.

"Yes, ma'am."

"What did he say?"

Perry's mouth quirked. "Mr. Darcy does not give his opinion to the maids, ma'am. I am sure that I could not say what he thought of it."

He would not be pleased, Elizabeth reflected, but he did seem inclined to make extra allowances for the children to spend time with their grandmother, so perhaps he would not mind terribly. By all accounts, Mrs. Bennet visited rarely. It was possible the children forgoing their lessons when they had visitors was typical.

After she finished eating, Perry insisted upon changing Elizabeth's gown. Though she would need to dress for dinner soon, Elizabeth hoped to spend some time with her family before the children were sent to bed. She had slept in her morning gown. Perry had too much professional pride as a lady's maid to allow her mistress into the sitting room in a rumpled gown.

When she was properly adorned, Elizabeth carefully made her way downstairs determined to find her way from her bedroom to the family's intimate sitting room without further directions. The layout of Pemberley was difficult to traverse. The land had belonged to the Darcy family for innumerable generations. In that time, the house had been built, renovated, torn down and rebuilt piece by piece, again and again. Still, she had spent a portion of nearly every morning in that sitting room. Elizabeth should be able to find it.

To her surprise and delight, as she was walking through the austere halls, Mr. Bennet emerged from the library. Elizabeth had not considered trying to meet with her father in his favorite room. First, because she would converse with him at dinner, and see the children there not at all, and second because she had never been to Pemberley's grand library. Surely, trying to find such a place would have her lost. Darcy would have to take her on a tour of the library once the apothecary her allowed to read as often as she wished.

"Papa!" she greeted happily. Her father accepted her hug and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

"Lizzy, dear," he said, "I despaired of seeing you to-day."

"Mr. Darcy is not so dramatic as to have you thinking I would be in bed all day," she replied.

"You would have me think he never exaggerates," Mr. Bennet chuckled, "but I believe that is one character flaw I might safely claim he possesses."

"I do not believe a propensity towards exaggeration to be a character flaw," Elizabeth argued. "And why should I claim you must be blind to it, if it is indeed something he does?"

Mr. Bennet only laughed. He took Elizabeth's arm and tucked it against his side. "Your Mr. Darcy," he said, trying to sound serious and largely failing, "is the very best of all men, or so you would have us think. I have never praised him half so well as to satisfy you, but I suppose that is because I find folly more diverting than virtue. Follies, he has a regretful lack of. But I should not have wanted my Lizzy married to a fool. Allow me this once to claim when he speaks of what concerns him, he makes it sound far worse than it in truth is."

"What you mean is," Elizabeth translated, "is that you are both worried about me and are letting each other's anxiety make your own worse."

"Almost from the moment you were born," Mr. Bennet said, "I could see you were an exceptionally quick young lady."

"That," she protested, "is an exaggeration."

"Allow an old man his follies," he chided. "I have valued your mind all your life. An illness that took a piece of your mind? For those that love you for it, it is a frightening thing to injure."

"I am still myself," she said, half in argument. She had felt more herself to-day than she had in the past. She was not of a nature to brood or be pessimistic and she had done far too much of that as of late. Her life would be what she made of it. She wanted to be happy.

When Elizabeth and her father arrived at the sitting room, she was surprised at a peculiar absence. Mrs. Bennet was doing some carpet-work. Eliza watched with a sampler in her lap, clearly finding her own work lacking in the face of Grandmama's. Fitzwilliam and Thomas had spread their tin soldiers out across the floor. Though Darcy might allow the children to be lax on their lessons, scattering toys about the house would be a different story. Frowning, Elizabeth approached her mother. She settled herself at Eliza's side and gave her a kiss. To Mrs. Bennet she asked, "Where is Julia?"

Eliza twisted in Elizabeth's arms. "Papa wanted to see her," she answered, looking towards Elizabeth.

"Called her to his study almost half an hour ago," Mrs. Bennet concurred.

"Does your father do that often?" Elizabeth asked, tuning her focus to Eliza. Repairing her relationship with her daughter had to take priority over Mrs. Bennet's version of events. "Summon someone to his side?"

"Yes," Eliza answered. Where Elizabeth's tone had been playful, Eliza's was factual. "Every day." After giving it a bit more thought, she added, "Papa likes to see Fitzwilliam the most. Papa asks to see him very often and keeps him for a long, long time."

Fitzwilliam was the heir; Darcy had already shared with Elizabeth that he preferred to show their eldest son as much of the business of the estate as he could. The boy was too young to have much patience or learn the complexities of estate administration by observation and example, but to familiarize him with as much as possible now could only be helpful as he grew older and was able to understand more.

"What do you do when your father asks to see you?"

Eliza shrugged. "Lots of things. He likes it when we read to him and he asks lots of questions about what we are learning and we play games. Sometimes he wants to show us something."

Elizabeth was not given the opportunity to say anything more. Julia entered the drawing room, with Darcy on her heels. "I have had a letter from Edmund!" she chirped. "Come, I shall read it to everyone!" Obediently, everyone ceased their individual activities to listen to Julia read the missive from her brother. Darcy sat with her as she read, following silently along. When she stumbled over difficult words or sloppy penmanship, he would lean down and whisper the word.

Edmund Wickham's adventures in the Royal Navy were of interest to all the party. Not yet experienced enough to have earned the rank of a midshipman, Edmund was Volunteer Class I at ten years of age. Darcy had paid the boy's way onto a ship with a good captain and firm schoolmaster. Though his circumstances were less privileged than that of the other children, Mrs. and Mr. Bennet were equally interested in Edmund's activities as they were in any of their grandchildren. Julia was excited by her brother's news; Eliza cared about anything Julia did. Fitzwilliam listened with rapt attention and fantasies of naval heroism. Thomas sat quietly.

To Elizabeth, the domestic scene was charming.

* * *

Some days later, the family scene in the drawing room was much the same. When Elizabeth saw a footman enter, she knew to expect an announcement from her husband, but was quite surprised to find herself the recipient. "Mr. Darcy requests the presence of Mrs. Darcy in his study."

Elizabeth met her father's eye. With a sigh, he set down his book. Mr. Bennet was able to watch over the boys in their mother's absence. The girls were still insisting upon keeping their grandmother occupied. Bracing herself, Elizabeth lifted her considerable girth off the settee. To the footman, she said, "You shall have to show me the way to Mr. Darcy's study. I fear I shall get lost on my own."

"This way, ma'am," he said. He set a sedate pace that Elizabeth was able to follow easily. As they strolled through the house, Elizabeth again marveled at the thought that the children could tread this path easily. The house was larger than Longbourn by several magnitudes.

When they arrived at Darcy's study, the footman opened the door and ushered Elizabeth inside. He announced her entrance, and shut the door behind her.

With a raised eyebrow and mock gravity, Elizabeth intoned, "I have been summoned."

To her surprise, Darcy rose from his desk and bowed. "Elizabeth," he said, with real solemnity. "Please, be seated."

She answered him with a curtsey before sinking in to the offered chair. "Forgive my uneasiness. This is a strange bit of formality."

"Not at all," he replied. "I wished to confer with you privately, and I am afraid that required separating you from our guests."

Elizabeth shrugged. "They shall not be inconvenienced by it, I wager." Her father would rather read than tend to his grandsons, but the boys were not troublesome. Mr. Bennet would not find the job taxing.

"I hope not."

"Well, sir," she said, trying to put him at ease with an encouraging smile, "Pray what is it that you would not speak of in front of my parents?"

Darcy returned to his desk for a moment to collect what appeared to be folded papers. "It is not something I would not speak of," he told her, approaching Elizabeth where she sat, "rather something I hoped to give you."

Darcy held the papers out to Elizabeth, who instinctively took them. They were letters, two sealed with red wax, a third with black. Each said _Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy _in Elizabeth's own hand. All three were still sealed. Only his name was on the outside, with no further direction or post mark. Evidently, at three points in their lives, she had written to him while they were under the same roof, and he had not thought to read it. The black seal indicated a recent death. Confused, Elizabeth asked, "What are these?"

"Letters," he answered, "written by yourself, to me."

Elizabeth frowned. "I can see that much. I do recognize my own hand. But..they are sealed? You have not read them?"

"No." Darcy pursed his lips before continuing. He had trouble formulating an explanation of the letters. He would begin, struggle and then begin anew. "They are…" Darcy tried, "Some women believe it will be comforting to their husbands if they write letters of farewell before they are brought to bed, in the event of the worst. These are letters you wrote to me before the births of Eliza, Fitzwilliam and Thomas." He fingered each letter it chronological order, beginning with the black seal.

The black seal, Elizabeth supposed, was meant to indicate her own passing. Darcy must have not reacted to that well, as the others were sealed in a less dramatic red. The lack of direction was explained as well. There would be times when being away from one another could not be helped. She had letters in her sitting room to prove that much. But when she was close to her confinement, her husband would not be far. These letters would not be posted; they would have been handed to him. His explanation answered much, but not everything. "Why did you not read them?"

"Because you survived," Darcy said. "I felt it would be an intrusion upon your privacy to read what you intended as final words."

As Elizabeth doubted the letters held any sort of unpleasant revelation, this seemed a strange stance to take. They were probably little more than love letters. "Did you anticipate that my sentiments would change before and after bearing a child?"

"No," Darcy protested, "I could simply never bring myself to read them."

"I suppose I thought you foolish," Elizabeth teased, "if I left the letters in your possession, knowing you never read them. What reason could I have in giving them, other than to have you read them?"

Though Darcy did not argue that her past self had found his hesitancy to read the letters silly, he clearly did not think it was foolish himself. "You do not think it morbid, to read words of farewell from a woman who still lives?"

In that light, she could understand his feelings. To behave as though someone still living was gone and to read their words of farewell could appear morbid. That he had not wished to do so after the births, she could accept. "I wonder that you have not read them now," Elizabeth said. "In some ways, you must feel as though your wife has died."

Tersely, he replied, "I do not equate the loss of your memory with the loss of your life."

Deciding that was a path better left less traveled, she asked, "Why are you giving these to me now?"

"The other day, you asked me for the history of our courtship," he began. Darcy took to pacing before her as he dwelled on the thoughts that brought him to offer the letters to her: "I have only my own perspective to offer you. I have never known you to keep a journal and when you do choose to confide in others, you have a tendency to frame your troubles as though they were a joke. In such a case such as this, your own perspective must remain a mystery to you. You have no way of truly seeing your own actions or thoughts for what they were. The impressions of others are all you can hope to receive.

"These letters, I thought, may help you understand yourself. You wrote them to me, but I have never read them. In that sense, they are entirely private. I do not know what you have written. Reading them is a way to see within the privacy of your own mind."

The letters had been written to comfort him, but Darcy was offering them to comfort herself. It was generosity itself for him to do so. Holding tight to the prized bits of insight into her own mind, Elizabeth said, "I thank you. It must be very difficult to surrender these. I shall return them, of course."

"You may keep them as long as you wish," he answered. "I have not read them, and so, I shall not miss them."

She did not believe him as much as he might have liked. While it was true he had not read the letters, he had kept them for years. He had studied them well enough to tell the letters written before the births of his sons apart only by the slight variation in her handwriting on the envelopes. He valued them. The letters had been written to him. Elizabeth would return them. She did not, however, feel it would be best to read them in Darcy's presence. He betrayed no wish of his own to read them. Should she stay in his study to read, Elizabeth would either have to conceal her reactions to what she saw, or share with him what passages she found the most telling.

She thanked him again for his thoughtfulness before repairing to her sitting room to read the letters in privacy. Perry was resting in her dressing room. Though Elizabeth normally did not ask Perry to leave the apartment until she was retiring, on this occasion she did dismiss her as she passed through. Once assured she was alone, Elizabeth sat at the desk in her sitting room. The letters from her husband, bound in pink ribbon, caught her eye. She wondered if had a similar collection of letters; letters he _had_ read, which he would not part with.

Because it was the earliest letter, Elizabeth broke the black wax seal first. She unfolded the paper and saw it was dated October 13, 1815. The second line evidenced that she had been writing from their London home. What anxious parents she and Darcy must have been! Married two years before the first confinement! They had gone to London for the birth; Physicians preferred Town.

_My dearest Fitzwilliam,_

_I have been mediating upon what you feel to be a reasonable fear of the most unfortunate outcome to an event we look upon with great anticipation. I have determined you are anxious enough for us both and that I shall fear such an ending not at all. The more I think on it, in fact, the greater my certainty grows that such an outcome is impossible. I shall enumerate below how it is I have come to form such an opinion. To set your mind at ease, however, I shall write this Entirely Unnecessary Letter. _

_First, you are to understand that you are the most good of all men. This fact cannot have escaped the Almighty, as He created you to be the exemplary person that you are. We have prayed these two years that we, the happiest of couples, may someday become the happiest of families. You shall be rewarded with all you have hoped for, for otherwise would be a miscarriage of justice and I do not believe God would deliver you injustice. (Therefore, you shall have no choice but to burn this letter unread. I shall make no attempt to stop you.)_

_Second, you must know I go forth with joy and joy alone in my heart. I have your child within me, and I wish for nothing more in life than to give you all that you deserve. I was not half so obedient when we met, you shall recall, but a consequence of marrying a man of sense and education is desiring to do as he wills. (If this child is a daughter, you must reject any suitor who has your combination of goodness, information and genius, for she will never maintain an independent spirit if she weds a man such as you. Certain Events have lead me to conclude you value independence in ladies, so this one request of mind should not be difficult to fulfill.) _

_Third, when we were wed it became my duty to tease you out of your unfortunate propensity to brood upon your own perceived failings. Though I have made as much progress as any woman could in two years, I do believe you are still entirely too inclined to believe the worst of yourself. You are willing to believe the best of all of God's other creatures with very little proof of their worthiness, but to your own virtues, you remain shockingly blind. I would blame a Willful Girl you once knew, who said Dreadful Untruths Most Cruelly at a Vulnerable Moment, but she has repented this most passionately. But perhaps that is the trouble. You must think on her and blush, and so as to save yourself the embarrassment of blushing at inappropriate moments, you think on her praise not at all. I hope that is the case, in fact. Regardless, there is much work to be done on curing you of your dour moods and you must know, I look forward to enjoying the fruits of my success. And you, of course, will look forward to enjoying the fruit-bearing part of myself._

_There, you see? I did not throw that page into the fire, which I certainly would have if I ever thought you may someday have cause read this letter. However, I am equal parts certain you shall not and impressed with my own daring, and so that scandalous page has nothing to fear. _

_Yes, I know. This is meant to be a letter of farewell. The purpose of this letter is to comfort for you in your darkest moments, should your beloved wife lose her life in service to your name. My deepest condolences, Sir, for this most optimistic letter. I think upon my being brought to bed and can consider only the years of happiness we shall know together. If I should die, a lively letter full of hopes for a happy future can only bring your more pain. I am afraid it cannot be helped. I have a most terrible truth that I can confess to You and You alone, Sir: I am too happy. Though I try to pay tribute to morbid fantasies so that I might present you with a better letter of farewell, I cannot do it. I think myself a sensible woman. I know I am embarking on a dangerous journey. Yet, the thought of carrying your child gives me only happiness. I can conceive of no greater joy than to create a family with you._

The letter went on for another page detailing her love for Darcy. Typically, love letters were closed with the phrase 'ever your friend,' but on her own, Elizabeth had written

_I shall only add, God bless you,_

_Elizabeth Darcy_

Elizabeth folded the letter and tried to master her emotions. She had not imagined such a happy, optimistic letter. Gifted with hindsight as she was, Elizabeth knew she had indeed survived Eliza's birth. She could not be angry with herself for wanting her family so badly that she refused to be preoccupied with fearing death. Yet, her past self was right to apologize to Darcy. If she had died, it could not have comforted him at all to read a merry letter, filled with dreams for the future and talk of marital relations. Perhaps she hoped her death would pain him less if he knew how happy she had been or that she had not been haunted by fear.

It did not change the way she perceived herself. In her youth, she had dreamed of motherhood. That she had been so excited about her first child did not surprise her in the least. However, it gave her much to think on with regards to her husband. The letter called him anxious, which he certainly was. Where Elizabeth had often thought him proud, the letter claimed he was self-effacing. Thinking back on the past few days spent at Pemberley, she could see the times when he had been reluctant to speak often stemmed from uneasiness as to how he would be received. While she had hoped to find a peaceful common ground with him, he had been attempting to circumvent rejection. She had decided almost from the start that she wished to please him, but Elizabeth had wanted Darcy to be happy because that would make both of their lives easier, not out of a sincere desire to give him joy.

She had loved him.

She had known she once loved him, of course. He had told her as much. But having never known herself to be in love, she could not have anticipated what herself in love would sound like. She teased him, yes. She was not satisfied with every choice he made. But her teasing and her occasional disapproval were one with her joy, her respect, her desire to listen to his good sense and information. A man she once felt very little for had become the man to answer all of her hopes for a marriage made in mutual love and respect.

How was she to face him? Knowing how she once felt for him did not make those same feelings blossom in her chest now. No, within her breast was a powerful bitterness at herself, and for him? Pity.

With determination not to be bested by her own words, Elizabeth broke the seal on a second letter. It was much the same as the first — joyful, optimistic, teasing and apologetic for how lacking it would be as a thing of comfort. The author promised faithfully not to use the black wax again, for Darcy had been so upset to see that on the first letter. She was, however, marginally more willing to accept that being brought to bed may have tragic consequences. The old Elizabeth, who did not think twice about teasing her husband about a dreadful circumstance, had to pause for a serious paragraph regarding the future of their daughter:

_Do not think yourself unequal to the task of caring for Eliza. I know even now, you think upon how you raised Georgiana and find yourself wanting. No where in all the world is there a girl who was done better by her brother. No where in all the world shall there be a girl who will be done better by her father. Do not withdraw from her. She could not recover from losing us both. The office of being the one to carry on must be yours. _

By the third letter, the Elizabeth of old had abandoned any fears of a grief-stricken Darcy rejecting his children. Not only was Eliza mentioned, but Fitzwilliam and Julia as well, and all in the most exuberant of language. If the third child he sired could not bring him joy, if his wife could no longer bring him joy, he had three dear sources of happiness to turn to.

She said she would return the letters. Having read them, Elizabeth wished to return them immediately. Only once did she have to look to a maid for help in her travels from her first floor sitting room to his ground floor study. Every step made her more agitated. Elizabeth hardly knew how to feel or what she should say to him. With every step, she dreaded approaching Darcy more and more. He had clearly told her that he did not want to read the letters. His own decisions should be respected, of course.

Elizabeth knocked on his door and waited for acknowledgement before entering. Darcy rose from his chair, surprised to see her again so soon. She crossed to him.

"Take them," Elizabeth said, pushing the letters into Darcy's hands. "Take them, please."

"Elizabeth!" he cried, dropping the letters to the ground. Frantic, he gripped her arms. "Dearest, it was not my intention to upset you."

"I am not…" she protested, "I am not upset. I do not know what I am, only you must take them."

Releasing her, Darcy gathered the letters from the floor. Eyeing them with distaste, he asked, "Do you wish for them to be burnt?"

"No!" she cried, "No, not that at all. Only, you must read them."

"I told you —"

"—I know what you said!" Elizabeth answered passionately, "I know! These letters, they were written for you. It was kind of you to give them to me. Your idea was to help me understand myself and it was a sound idea as could be. But these letters were written for you. I believe you ought to be the one to read them."

Darcy turned one over to look at the broken seal. "You did read them?" he asked.

"I did," Elizabeth affirmed.

"I had hoped they would put you at ease," he said. "You must know I have no wish to upset you. I should not have asked you to read them."

"No," she protested, distraught as his conclusion. "I am glad you did. I must not appear very glad, I know. I only wish for you to read them."

He eyed her with trepidation, his own long held stance against reading the letters warring with her request. "Why do you wish so strenuously for me to read them, when I have explained my reasoning for not doing so?"

"It is not that I do not respect your wishes, or your reasoning," she hurried to say. However, she was lacking a better reason for her own desire. "I cannot account for it," Elizabeth confessed. "I do not believe they are comforting in the least. Had I died, they should not have brought you peace. In light of our current circumstance, I do not believe they could do so now, either."

He waited, silently. She had given him very good reasons to not read. Darcy expected she would follow that with reasons strong enough to overturn them.

"It is only," she said, searching within herself, "that I was very happy when I wrote them. I suppose I should like for you to remember how happy you had made me, if I cannot."

This, he accepted. "Very well." Darcy began to unfold whatever letter happened to be on top in the pile he held, but Elizabeth stopped him. She rifled through the letters, ensuring that he read them in order.

Elizabeth catalogued his reactions as he read the black-sealed letter. At moments, he appeared happy, at others wistful. Once, he stopped reading entirely to make an anxious turn around the room. Elizabeth wondered if Eliza had learned that behavior from watching him, or if it was a natural inclination of them both.

For the second letter, he sat. Elizabeth chose a spot beside him. One passage upset him above all the others; she felt she had a good idea what she had written to offend him. Perhaps when Eliza was yet a baby, Darcy had not seemed an interested parent. She could not have expected him to be invested before the child could walk and talk. Men never were, nor was it their place to be. He demonstrated great interest and affection for all of the children now. He carried them, read with them, played with them and indulged in all of their wishes.

After folding the second letter, Darcy set it aside. He turned the final letter over in his hands. Sensing he needed fortification, and knowing herself to have outgrown whatever maternal prejudices were present in the second, Elizabeth rested her head upon his shoulder. This appeared suitable encouragement. He opened and read the final letter.

When he had finished the third, Elizabeth feared he might cry. Unsure of how to comfort him, she took the hand nearest to herself and pressed his palm upon their baby. Softly, she murmured, "I have nothing else to offer you."

"Will you write again," Darcy asked, "before the birth?"

Elizabeth considered the idea, but could not find that she would have much to say. "I think not," she replied. "If I should die, I would rather you remember me as I was then."


	11. Chapter 11

**Bruises**  
Chapter Eleven

* * *

In the weeks that followed, the family at Pemberley gradually fell into a stable routine. Upon rising, Elizabeth would meet with Mrs. Taylor and Cook. She learned the rhythm of the house staff and how to dress the table. Pemberley was an ancient institution; Mrs. Taylor required very little input from its mistress. Maids and footmen came and went like any other house, but the running of it was so well established that new staff fell quickly into place. At the same time, it was a modern community that adapted to changing fashions and ideas. Mrs. Taylor had been well trained by her predecessor, a Mrs. Reynolds. The household had suffered not a hiccup in the transition. When the time came, Mrs. Taylor was prepared to train the next housekeeper. Pemberley itself took little notice of the mistress's indisposition.

Cook's expectations were very different. While Mrs. Taylor had barely any need to confer with Elizabeth, Cook was rendered all but immobile without her input. Hers was the kitchen and the cooking, but menu selection was Elizabeth's domain. Together, they labored to plan the table. One woman knew how the pantry was stocked and where to acquire any additional ingredients required. The other was challenged to ensure a balanced menu that answered the needs of children and adults alike, and reconciled the sophisticated palate of Darcy with the simpler tastes of his guests.

Soon, when her mind was set to right again, Mrs. Taylor would have to teach Elizabeth what all was involved in balancing household accounts for an estate of this size. But that was in the future. For now, Mrs. Taylor balanced the accounts herself.

After Mrs. Taylor and Cook had returned to their respective dominions, Perry took an half hour to familiarize Elizabeth with her correspondences. Together, they had made a decent effort at drafting a letter to Lady Grey. Elizabeth did not suppose Darcy's sister to be ignorant of their situation. He was too fastidious, too interested in his family to have said nothing. Darcy received a multitude of letters each day. He sent just as many. No small number of those letters, Elizabeth was sure, had traversed the miles between Derbyshire and Sussex. Still, she needed to send a few lines of her own to the sister she could not recall meeting. Perry's good information, combined with Elizabeth's desire to forge a relationship with Lady Grey, resulted in the beginnings of an interested, if a bit awkward, letter. Before she sent anything, Elizabeth intended to ask Darcy his opinion. The writing was going slowly, however. The act of holding a pen and using it to create legible words was proving more challenging than either Elizabeth or Perry had anticipated. She had not a draft she felt ready for Darcy's eyes, let alone his sister's.

At promptly 9:00 each morning, the family convened in the drawing room for breakfast. Darcy was often absent from the scene, which Elizabeth found concerning at first. Assured by the staff that the master was never in the habit of eating with the children, Elizabeth accepted this as a normal occurrence. He saw them when he pleased, and that was often enough to satisfy their mother.

After breakfast, Miss Weston would usher the children to the schoolroom for their lessons. Mr. Bennet disappeared into the library. Though she had grown stronger, the hours when she had only her mother or Perry for company continued to be difficult. Needlework was a constant source of vexation. It had never pleased her to do it, and with fingers that were uncooperative, her sewing was all the worse. Elizabeth had located a number of novels that were of interest, but she could scarcely finish a chapter before her head ached too fiercely to continue. Had the family been open to callers from the neighborhood, the tedium would be easier to bear. She hoped to meet the wives of the local clergy soon — the women who were fulfilling her own obligations in the parishes until she was well — but the surrounding communities were well aware that the family was not at home to callers.

The children joined their mother and grandmother for luncheon and disappeared again when the meal was over. After their lessons, they were free to play and then the house was lively. The girls' giggling echoed through the halls. Fitzwilliam recruited his parents, grandparents and any passing footman alike for his games. Thomas was his silent and willing lieutenant.

Darcy joined them in the evening. He sat at the head of the table at dinner, and despite whatever misgivings he had had about her family when he proposed, or the rudeness Mrs. and Mr. Bennet displayed as his guests, he was an affable host. Elizabeth was proud of him in those moments. It had never been made secret that Darcy could please when he thought it worth the effort. He evidently felt her parents worthy of his best behavior. When she watched him from the other side of the large dining room table, she felt a great swell of affection for him, as well as a fierce desire to protect him from whatever mortifying nonsense Mrs. Bennet was likely to be saying.

After dinner, when the men rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, smelling of cigars and with every appearance of ease with one another, Darcy wandered away from her father and sought Elizabeth's company. Once with her, he never strayed far from her side. Whether she was conversing or entertaining at the instrument, he was her constant companion. He turned the pages when she played, was her partner at cards. He still made subtle hints at their guests to retire when he recognized the signs Elizabeth was losing her vigor, but things like the supper hour were agreed between them in privacy. When she argued that supper service could be pushed later, he relented. When she chose to retire, he escorted to her to their shared apartments, but always disappeared after Perry claimed her.

Outside of this set schedule, he was less predictable. When Darcy wished for the time or attention of any in their party, he claimed it. As Eliza had observed, he appeared the most interested in Fitzwilliam. Hours could pass without Elizabeth hearing of either of them. He wanted herself, too, of course. Sometimes to show her items acquired during their lives together, other times to enquire about her health. It was during one of these times that he announced he had had a letter from Bingley. Alone, it would have meant very little, as Bingley's letters were wont to do, but in this instance, Jane had thoughtfully added a few lines. She wrote of her intention to visit, and so it was that nearly a month after Elizabeth's accident, her most beloved sister arrived at Pemberley.

* * *

Of all the people Elizabeth had become reacquainted with, Jane had changed the least. True, there was now an infant in her arms and she was trailed by two sons, but her countenance held a beauty and serenity that was untouched by time. The sons — Charles and Henry, Darcy had told her — were comparable in age to Julia and Eliza. Fitzwilliam, not at all intimidated by boys older than he, immediately stepped forward as the leader of the children. He did not at all mind reminding them that Pemberley was his house, he was the heir, the toys belonged to him and he knew all the most interesting places. Lord and master of the pond, the mud and the bugs, he was perfectly willing to share these things with his older cousins, provided they follow him. With the examples of Thomas, quietly attending to his brother's whims, and Julia, sensible enough to reign Fitzwilliam in when needed and tactful enough to do so without open insubordination, Charles and Henry Bingley fell into step.

Mrs. Bennet moaned in disappointment when Charles and Henry disappeared with their cousins before she could properly fuss over them. Mr. Bennet greeted Jane with a quick kiss to her temple, admired her infant briefly and excused himself. Bingley and Darcy dominated one another's attention, however much Eliza tugged on her father's coat and tried to gain his notice for herself.

"Go play," Darcy commanded.

Eliza shuffled in place a moment before answering, "I wish to stay with you, Papa."

Darcy stared down at her hard, as though very seriously assessing the request. Then he said, "Very well. But you must know, should you stay, your aunt and uncle Bingley will want to hear you play the instrument."

She cast a suspicious look at her aunt and uncle and moved incrementally closer to her father. "I play very poorly," Eliza informed them. "You should not like to hear it."

Watching Darcy, Elizabeth saw him give Bingley a significant look. Obediently, his friend replied, "I very much would, Eliza!"

Her eyes very wide with surprise and alarm, Eliza looked up at her papa, who shrugged. Finding no support, Eliza hastily excused herself and disappeared down the same corridor as the other children.

"Very cruel, Darcy," Bingley said once she had gone, "to make me party to your schemes."

Unrepentant, he replied, "In this, I refuse to indulge her. Better for her to give over her bad habits at eight than eighteen, or heaven forbid, eight and twenty."

Bingley smiled and said, "I think you make too much of this."

"Perhaps," he conceded, "but I think it better to resolve a minor issue with too much zeal than to let it fester and become worse with time."

Bingley could only shrug at that and made some inquiry about the estate that was a very thinly veiled attempt to leave the ladies alone to reacquaint themselves. Darcy, undoubtedly recognizing it as such and not opposed to the idea, assented to showing Bingley all that he wished to see.

Soon enough, the women removed to the sitting room. Mrs. Bennet immediately took possession of her youngest grandchild. A prodigiously interested grandparent, this was the first Mrs. Bennet had seen baby Jane and she was not of a mind to surrender her to any other person. Elizabeth seated herself close by, as to better admire the infant.

"She is handsome, Jane," Elizabeth told her sister. "Not that I thought she could be otherwise, with a mother such as yourself."

Jane smiled, radiating a quiet pleasure. "She has given me much joy. I am grateful to have my sons. They are fine boys and I am so pleased I was able to give Charles sons, but a piece of my heart did so hope to be blessed with a daughter someday. I confess, Lizzy, I have long been jealous of you."

"My Jane," Elizabeth admonished, "jealous! No, surely such a thing is impossible."

"We grew up in a house of girls," her sister reminded her. "To have a household without daughters has been very strange. I have so little experience with boys."

"You must do yourself more credit. Our Gardiner cousins always favored you."

"I know you wish to always place me at the advantage," Jane replied, "but it cannot always be so!"

"It certainly must be!"

"You must confess," Jane protested, "that playing with younger cousins is not at all the same as having sons of your own."

"I did not intend to imply that it was," Elizabeth answered, though in truth, most of her interaction with Fitzwilliam and Thomas had been playing with them. Never had they required discipline and her own limitations hindered teaching them. Carrying another child within her had made carrying the children in her arms, as Darcy did, awkward, if not impossible. "I meant only to say that you have more experience with boys than you give yourself credit."

"You are too generous with your praise."

"Nonsense," Elizabeth cried. "I have said perhaps a quarter of what you deserve and a good deal less than that for anyone else."

"I have been so long in coming," Jane said sadly. "I cannot deserve your praise, after waiting so long to come visit you."

"Dearest!" Elizabeth replied with feeling. "You have been delivered of this charming girl and you needed to recover. I begrudge you that not at all! Pray do not think I am so cruel to have wished you here when I knew you confined."

"I wished to be at your side," Jane said.

"I suppose my husband has written yours despairing letters that your Charles has faithfully related to you in dreadful detail." After conjuring so dismissal a version of events, Elizabeth added archly, "You should not take it to heart; my father warns me Mr. Darcy is prone to exaggeration."

Cautiously, Jane said, "Fitzwilliam has written of his concerns, of course."

Mindful not to be a burden on her as she recuperated, Darcy was careful to obfuscate his worries when he was together with Elizabeth. It was impossible to conceal all of it, of course, and she was aware of his pain. As to the depths and specifics of his anxiety, she had been so far left to her own conjectures. Having learned to read him better than she had initially, Elizabeth knew he was comforted by her touch and she used that liberally. As long as she did not remember, however, she could not offer him relief. "And was it so very bad?"

"Charles and I think highly of my brother's discernment," Jane answered. "I cannot agree with my father that he exaggerates. In this instance, however, I suspect that your own assessment of how you feel might be more the more trustworthy account of your health."

"I was feeling very poorly at first," Elizabeth admitted. "Truly, I feel much better now."

"Fitzwilliam writes us you are fatigued."

"I understand women are often fatigued when they are with child."

Jane frowned. "Yes, that is true. But, Lizzy, Fitzwilliam has seen you with child three times before and this fatigue is not the same."

"Do not worry yourself. I have felt stronger each day."

Not appeased, Jane continued: "He has also written of headaches."

"When one has been struck upon the head," Elizabeth countered, "I should think headaches would be expected."

"Then you must be correct," Jane said decidedly. "If you, as you say, grow stronger each day, than recovery must come with time."

"Then we are agreed," Elizabeth said firmly. In her body, she felt better with every passing day. Nothing as of yet had improved her memory. While she was confidant that her body would continue to improve until she was able to take on all of her past offices, Elizabeth did wonder about her mind. "And yet, it is difficult to be patient with such a thing. I no longer know myself."

"Know yourself," Mrs. Bennet scoffed, easing the baby onto her shoulder. "You have forgot nothing you cannot learn anew. What is important is your situation. Lizzy, I do not think you appreciate how lucky you are."

"I confess," Elizabeth replied, "I find little lucky about my illness."

"You are giving that illness too much credit," her mother said.

This claim, Elizabeth could hardly accept. Her mother had been letting imaginary maladies plague her for as long as the daughter could recall.

"You have a fine home, healthy sons and a husband who does not wish to see you make a fool of yourself. Your future is nicely secured, and so is that of your children. Behave yourself, and you have not a single cause to worry."

"Mama," Jane protested, "Lizzy is right to worry about her illness. Why, she has known her husband and children only a month when she should have known them all for so much longer! Think on how strange it must be to know you have forgotten so much, but be unable to recall it."

"A month," Mrs. Bennet insisted, "is enough time to have the measure of any man."

"Mr. Darcy is a complex character," Elizabeth replied. "I have grown in my understanding of him, but I still feel I hardly know him."

"I do not believe him so complex, Lizzy," Jane interjected. "In trying circumstances, he expresses his thoughts poorly. In that sense, he has always needed you to ease his way."

"Me, ease his way?" Elizabeth asked with raised eyebrows. "How can it be that a man of sense and education, who has lived in the world and is responsible for the livelihood and happiness of so many, can need anyone to ease his way?"

"You do not account for different tempers," her sister said. "His position in life grants every cause for confidence and I do believe he feels it as he ought, but that does not mean he converses easily, especially not when feeling something strongly."

Elizabeth knew enough of Darcy to recognize the truth in Jane's words. In the beginning, he barely spoke to her and when he did, she did not understand half of what he meant. As they both became more accustomed to one another, his willingness to speak gradually grew. How different his accounts were at their first dinner versus the morning she demanded information! With her better knowledge of his history, she could recognize how he had not made an attempt to defend himself against her accusations following his proposal. Too hurt and angry to have expressed himself properly, he waited until he had calmed to write the letter that had apparently changed everything.

Darcy had told her himself he did not converse easily with strangers. At the time, she had thrown the blame for that on him. Practice, she had thought, would cure him of his inability to understand the tone of conversation. Evidently, ten years with a wife fond of society and making new acquaintances had not cured him. Perhaps it was not practice he needed, but assistance.

"Why must it be, Jane," Elizabeth wondered, "that you should know my husband better than I?"

"You must be patient, Lizzy," her sister reiterated. "It has been only a month. You will improve with time."

A month of time was a good enough segue to turn the conversation to Miss Jane Bingley, scarcely more than a month old. The ladies spent the morning talking of babies, both those born and the anticipated arrival of the youngest Darcy.

* * *

Before the children took their dinner, the entire party came together again so that Mrs. and Mr. Bennet were able to admire the Bingley sons at their leisure. Refreshments were served; that, more so than the boys, was likely what drove Mr. Bennet from the library. Elizabeth observed with displeasure how he was a less interested grandparent than he had even been a parent He barely noticed the existence of any of the children, her own included.

Elizabeth had seen to it that a variety of fruits from the hot house should be made available. Though Charles and Henry's progression towards the table was halted by the enthusiasm of their grandmother, the Darcy children advanced towards it unimpeded. Julia made Thomas' plate before ushering him to the settee to eat. Being older, Fitzwilliam required less help than his brother. What he assistance he did need was generally provided by Eliza. Looking unusually sullen, she left him to fend for himself.

Elizabeth served tea to the men and Jane. Mrs. Bennet was too preoccupied with her Bingley grandsons to want for tea. Eyes never leaving the sight of her grandmother and cousins, Eliza carefully walked to her mother and aunt Bingley with a plate of orange slices. Earlier, she had shown a preference for her father. His company was apparently no longer so pleasing to Eliza. She left him to converse with Bingley in peace.

"Did you have a good time playing with your cousins?" Elizabeth asked.

"No," Eliza replied tersely.

Elizabeth's own smile wavered slightly, but having the good fortune to be the favored parent, she was not going to let Eliza's sulky mood triumph. "Come now," she coaxed, "surely something good happened."

Eliza did not even pretend to consider it. "No," she said. From across the room, she scowled at her cousins for good measure.

"What games did you play?" Elizabeth asked.

"I did not play any games at all," her daughter replied stiffly. She put her untouched oranges down on the table with the tea things.

The Bingley boys, having made a successful escape from their grandmother, were walking towards the refreshment table, laughing.

Deeply affronted by this, Eliza shouted at them, "I hate you!"

Abandoning his conversation with Bingley without another word, Darcy crossed the room to Eliza, hefted her up without pausing and walked out of the sitting room.

"Lizzy," Jane said in a rush, "I am so sorry." She withdrew from Elizabeth's side before she could reply and went to her sons. Bingley cast Elizabeth an apologetic look. Jane spoke too quietly to the boys for anyone to hear, but when she was finished, she called for Miss Weston to walk them to their apartments.

The entire scene was came as a surprise to Elizabeth. Her own love for Jane and Darcy's friendship with Bingley had produced in Elizabeth so strong an expectation that their children were close friends as well as loving cousins that the reality of strife between them came to her as a great shock. No one left in the room appeared at all surprised by what had occurred. Clearly, she was the only one caught unawares by Eliza's outburst.

More than anything else, what solidified the idea that this was a common occurrence was Julia's lack of anxiety. The girls had always appeared to be in the strictest confidence. Darcy having gone, and feeling Jane was not the best source for information about the friction between their children — her maternal feelings combined with an innate need to see only the good in any person must make her blind to somethings — Elizabeth was left to apply to Julia.

Elizabeth approached Julia where she sat with Thomas on the settee. Carefully, Elizabeth suggested, "Eliza and your Bingley cousins do not get on well."

Julia, too well bred to speak with her mouth full, shook her head.

"You like them," Elizabeth continued, "do you not?"

After swallowing, Julia affirmed, "Charles and Henry are lots of fun."

"Pray why does Eliza not think so?"

"Oh," Julia said, "they are loud, and Eliza is shy. She talks a lot with us, or Grandmama, but with everyone else, she is as quiet as Thomas. Charles and Henry say she is dumb, so she becomes angry and refuses play."

"If that is the case, it is a wonder to me that your uncle Darcy told her to go with them."

"My uncle says that Eliza has to learn to talk to people, even if she does not wish to," Julia answered.

"Your uncle is very strict," Elizabeth observed.

Julia hesitated before replying. "He does not think it good that Eliza and Thomas are so quiet. I think Eliza would like Charles and Henry if she tried, but she is afraid of them." Julia shrugged. "Fitzwilliam is loud, too, sometimes, but Eliza is used to him. We see Charles and Henry often. I do not know why Eliza is not used to them yet." She sighed. "I try to get them to play together, but Eliza can be very stubborn and Charles and Henry do not help at all."

"Do they argue like this every time you see them?"

Julia nodded.

"Oh, dear." Worried, Elizabeth turned towards the door. "Where do you suppose your uncle took her?"

"The nursery," Julia answered.

"Is it all right if Thomas, Fitzwilliam and yourself stay here with aunt and uncle Bingley? I should like to see how Eliza and your uncle Darcy get on."

Julia agreed, and after mentioning an intention to check on her daughter to Jane and Bingley, Elizabeth left the drawing room for the nursery. A month of visiting her boys there left Elizabeth confident in her abilities to find it without assistance, but she knew equally well that the journey from the sitting room to the nursery involved many staircases. She prayed her stamina would not fail her. The hour the children were normally sent to bed was not far off; if Eliza's punishment was to be sent to bed early and Elizabeth's strength faltered, Eliza could be asleep before she arrived.

The walk gave Elizabeth time to reflect on all that she had seen. Everyone had been a party to the incident. Darcy, desiring Eliza overcome her shyness, had all but forced her to go with her cousins though she expressed a desire to stay with the adults. Bingley had known what he was about. Though she really knew nothing of Jane or Bingley's attitudes as parents, it seemed likely to Elizabeth that neither of them would be as strict as Darcy. If, as Julia suggested, Charles and Henry made sport of Eliza, she feared little was done about it or to prevent it from happening again. Indeed, it appeared a typical occurrence. And herself, yet again not knowing any better, had tried to coax Eliza into doing something that would pain her.

Elizabeth met Darcy in the hall. Having just left their daughter, he appeared distracted.

"Eliza," she put forth, "how is she?"

"She can be a trial, I know," Darcy said, "please do not withdraw from her."

Surprised at Darcy's plea, Elizabeth said, "I had not intended to!"

"She is…they are all dear to me," Darcy said, plainly struggling to express himself.

"But Eliza is perhaps your favorite?" Elizabeth suggested. Her own parents had had clear favorites for the entirety of her life. Though she hoped to be a different sort of mother than her own, and she knew Darcy to be a different sort of father, perhaps it was too much to not anticipate some favoritism.

He was offended. "No, never that." Darcy sighed. "You must understand. Eliza is our first child. She was born ill."

Having observed from the first how thin and frail she was when compared to her siblings and cousin, this admission surprised Elizabeth less than Darcy might be expecting. She had not suspected it, exactly, but so many instances confirmed it. Eliza left her food untouched, had a bad cough and was eaten up with anxiety and restlessness. She had related to Elizabeth that she had been very small at her birth. Her parents had ordered her portrait done when she was an infant, for fear they would never have another opportunity.

Her own sisters all having been healthy at their births, Elizabeth knew not what she may have done wrong in carrying her first child. Her mother's example produced only healthy children. Elizabeth thought herself of good stock. Not knowing what else to say, but sure that the guilt she felt now was only a shadow of what she felt when in full command of her experiences, Elizabeth said, "I am very sorry."

"It is a Fitzwilliam trait," he replied, familiar enough with where her thoughts were tending. "We have spoken of this before," he sighed. "That we have created a family as large as we have is almost beyond my comprehension. I never dared hope for so many healthy children. Please, you bear no guilt for her frailty. It is my doing. Never the less, we feared from the first that she would not survive. We carried this fear with us constantly for her first two years. When you were delivered of Fitzwilliam, we were pleased beyond measure. Yet there was, I think from us both, certainly I felt it, a guilt. I felt I did her a disservice, in being thankful for a healthy son.

"But she surprised us. She grows stronger every year. It is my hope when she grows older still, the influence of childhood illness will be gone. Her recovery has been your doing. Where so many other parents would have tried to protect her, as Lady Catherine did my cousin Anne, you took our Eliza outside. You showed her the beauty of the world and taught her to thrive."

"Fresh air and exercise," Elizabeth translated.

"Perhaps," he conceded with a smile. "Fitzwilliam and Thomas were born healthy. They neither of them have given us a moment's concern. I am hopeful that when the next comes, he will be as strong as his brothers. But Eliza…she needs all that we can give her."

In light of her own observations, Darcy's story made too much sense for Elizabeth to be overwhelmed by what he had told her. That it took so long for him to deem the story necessary only proved to her how strong Eliza truly had grown. A new acquaintance need not even know she had been so ill as a baby. "I only wished to see her," Elizabeth confessed. "She is upset. I should like to reassure her."

"Of course," Darcy said, offering his arm. "How thoughtless of me to take her from you. I had thought perhaps…but it is of small importance."

Accepting his arm, Elizabeth walked with Darcy the rest of the way to the nursery. He was a difficult man to anticipate. So many times in the past, she had tried to discern what he was not saying and had been wrong. She supposed his fear was that her loyalty to Jane would be greater than her loyalty to Eliza, that she would reject her daughter for saying such things to Jane's children.

But, she did not know his mind so well. Perhaps her conjecture would be incorrect if she asked him directly. Darcy said it was unimportant. She would not press him on it.

Each concentrating upon their own thoughts, they walked to the nursery together.


End file.
